


The Space Between Us

by mandywritesfiction



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Stress Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 63,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7934506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandywritesfiction/pseuds/mandywritesfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire Dearing doesn’t do blind dates, but when her best friend begs her to meet a guy that he personally knows and starts to tell her anecdotes of the one and only Owen Grady, Claire soon finds herself giving in and agrees to go out with him. </p><p>What happens next is a hurricane of tragedy, their lives twisted into a mangled mess, but with determination to come out on top, will the space nudged between them manage to rip them apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, folks. Hang in there, because this A/N is going to be long. This is part 1 of 2, just so you all know. I’m forever indebted to Lucy (@poeticandvaguelysweet on Tumblr) for her constant, unwavering help in the creation of this fic. Honestly, if it weren’t for her, the latter 50k wouldn’t even exist. She never once told me to shut up when I needed a sounding board, and she was there for the constant motivation and friendship I needed when I wanted to delete everything. I owe her everything...and a large amount of royalties that come from this. Lucy, you’re the best (I’m sure you’re nodding your head) and I just wanted to say thank you, from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> This will be part 1 of 2, and I will be posting the second part...when I feel it's right. I'm not going to make anyone wait weeks or anything, but I want to make sure the first part is well-receipted, which I'm sure sounds sketchy, but I've put so much time and work, not to mention frustration, into creating this story that I am, well, obsessed with. So, with that being said, I'll probably end up posting part 2 this weekend? Who knows.

_Space._ The space between their bodies as they're walking from the restaurant of their first date to her bakery, or the space put between them while she's in surgery, fighting for her life. It's the 'space' he paces in the waiting room, a span of twenty three feet made up of ten and a half tiles that he walks a staggered line across, delusional from the outcomes he played on repeat in his mind. It's the lack of space between their legs the first night he sleeps with her in the hospital bed. It's the space between the words 'I' and 'love' on the letter he writes her before he leaves. It's the space he puts between them when he leaves for D.C. and the space he closes when he comes back. It's the space between his fingers when he steeples them together at the third ultrasound appointment that reveals their first child will be a boy. It's the space he needs when they lose the love he hasn't yet met. It's the space between them at night, so close but eons away. It's the space that brings them together. It’s the space in which they find their love tucked away for safe keeping, reminding them one day there will be no space at all.

[…]

“Claire?” Owen hesitated as he approached the table to see the red-headed woman staring down at her lap, only seconds later to see she was on her phone. Granted, that’s what he deserved for being nearly half an hour late, and he could have covered up the over-used excuse of work keeping him behind, but he didn’t dare speak the words. Instead, he ducked down to smile at her before extending his hand out, inhaling sharply when she _finally_ looked up at him. Jesus, she was as beautiful as a piece of art. Her vivid hair framed her face in an aura of fire, one that had him believing he’d found an angel in the depths of hell.

Without missing a beat, Claire reached out for his hand and accepted the silent apology he extended; she knew his line of work from their mutual friend, Barry, who also happened to be on the force with Owen. Barry had talked the man up for _weeks_ , practically luring Claire into accepting a blind date, but it was hardly blind; while she’d seen pictures of him, Claire made Barry swear to not show any in return. It was an omen of sorts; she was usually judged by her cover before the first page was turned. Something about being an ice queen until she opened her mouth to speak. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, although I feel like I’ve known you for years, the way Barry talks about you,” Owen chuckled, his tone relaxed as he took a seat across from her, not realizing he still had her hand until she cleared her throat. Was he the only one nervous? She exuded a level of confidence he’d never seen before, and couldn’t help but feel slightly behind on his game already. 

“I hope you’ve at least ordered yourself a glass of wine…” He glanced down at the menu in front of her just as the waitress appeared, offering him a glass of their best reds, which he politely accepted after getting a reassuring nod from Claire. So maybe he wasn’t as far behind as he’d thought. He’d found out from his best friend that she was in the restaurant business and _begged_ that he set them up at a neutral restaurant across the city; for fuck’s sake, they lived in Chicago, it was _filled_ with restaurants they could dine at. And, according to his trusty source, Italian was her favorite. “I hope you don’t mind that I chose an Italian restaurant instead of yours for our first date…” 

It was mere seconds before she began to laugh, the bubbly sounds ever so intoxicating. She was a fine champagne and he was the one offering to drink her in only minutes after meeting, but it was something about her smile that he couldn’t say no to. “Well, unless you’d planned on eating pastries for dinner, then I’d say your pick was right on the money.” 

Long enough for his head to spin around before he could get his bearings, Owen felt the crimson blush creeping onto his face; she was a _baker_ , not a cook. Not that it meant any less, but it made sense why she was so sweet. “Well, just so you know, I’ve always enjoyed eating dessert first.” 

Claire lifted her gaze from studying the scars etched into the back of his hand and cocked her head to the side. Was it vain to think he was talking about her? Or was she being naïve in assuming he actually meant _dessert_? “Consider dessert for tonight taken care of then, yes? Unless you’re set on having it here?

It wasn’t exactly her first time in figuring out his likes and dislikes; Claire had to practically beg Barry to give her intel on the mystery behind Owen Grady. Blind-dating had _never_ been her scene, and if it were up to her, she would’ve never accepted the slightest idea of it. But the night Barry came over talking up a _‘friend’_ of his—only to find out it was actually a fellow officer—and how badly Owen wanted to meet her, she was too far intrigued to say no. Especially after he sent her flowers _days_ before their date; it was set in stone at that point.

Owen held up a hand in defense and shook his head, laughter reaching the surface before splitting his lips. How could this gorgeous woman consider, even for a minute, that he wanted to cut their date short by getting mediocre dessert at an Italian restaurant when it was guaranteed anything she could make would be beyond exceptional? “I promise, it’s perfectly fine. We can leave for dessert. I’m still jealous when Barry talks about the perfect cupcakes you make for his birthday every year.” 

The polite conversation where they skirted over deeper personal topics slowly faded away into laughter as they shared a bottle of the finest red wine, pouring glass after glass while eating small samples of hors d’oeuvres. For what felt like the first time in _years_ , he was enjoying himself in the company of a woman, instead of merely getting her in bed to worry about his own satisfaction. Owen Grady was _not_ a womanizer; but, when most women only wanted to be with him for the fact that he was working his way up to detective and entertained the idea of being with a police officer to live out some _Law and Order_ fantasy, it pushed the point of frustrating. It wasn’t until he thought he’d found his _‘dream girl’_ that Owen truly found the meaning of happiness. 

He met Mora at the police academy, but she dropped out once she realized it wasn’t for her. He’d committed so much of himself to loving Mora, right down to the sappy movie-marathons they would have together on Saturday nights. How many times could one guy watch _The Notebook_ and be questioned on his love for the woman beside him? He supported her in the irrational decision, one that was triggered by receiving a bad score on a physical training test, only to discover nearly a year later that she’d been sleeping with another officer. She had sabotaged herself in order to be kicked out in hopes that Owen would never find out about the affair, all while lying to him. So, he did as most would; he pushed away the idea of being in a relationship with any woman and threw himself head first into his career. It seemed rational at the time — despite the cautionary tales from those around him — and he was determined to block out the noise. 

That was until Barry started talking up _Claire Dearing_. Not that she necessarily needed to be put on a pedestal, but now that he’d had his first glimpse at the woman behind the stories, his first order was to find her a foundation high enough to sit on, merely so he could admire her. Then he’d figure out how to win her over. 

That was until he revealed his biggest secret through the game of _‘two truths and a lie’._

“You don’t like pancakes?” Claire gasped, raising a hand to cover her mouth in only a way she could pull off without appearing to be reverting to toddler-like tendencies. “That has to be your lie. Why else would you accept a date with a _baker_?” 

Owen shrugged and attempted to conceal his own laughter. “Well, technically speaking, I’ve never had a _decent_ pancake, because my mother wasn’t the best breakfast cook growing up.” Was it strange that he wanted her to prove history wrong and make a pancake he would like? “And, I didn’t exactly know that you specialize in _pancakes_.” 

As a bakery owner _and_ a fellow pastry chef, Claire was offended but might’ve been exaggerating—but only the slightest bit. What sane, not to mention rational person disliked the taste of a pancake? Not only did they sink in the pool of syrup (or was she the only one who did such a thing?) but they were sent from heaven. From this moment, she made a mental reminder that it was her goal in life to have Owen Grady admit that he liked _her_ pancakes. Fuck if they came from some chain-restaurant that used a box mix. _Hers_ were homemade and tasted like a cloud from heaven’s doorstep. 

“Fine, if you think mine is so terrible, let’s hear yours. Two truths and _one_ lie, right now.” Owen reached for his wine glass with one hand and idly rested the other only millimeters away from her fingertips, slowly pushing forward until he could lace their hands together. It was smooth and precise, everything he needed to be in the moment to seem that he had it going for him, even when he was scared shitless that he wouldn’t seem worth a shot at getting to know. 

While Owen continued to wrack his brain for reasons that she wouldn’t find him attractive (had he remembered to brush his teeth before their date _and_ bring gum to chew for a minute when he would eventually go off to the restroom before they left the restaurant?) Claire failed at thinking of her statements to continue the game. Would he think she was lame for never having ridden a roller coaster? Or, if she stated that she was a virgin, would he even believe her? Chances were he wouldn’t, and she couldn’t exactly blame him; finding a woman who was still a virgin was like finding a needle in a haystack in the middle of Times Square—impossible. 

“Alright, fine, but I swear to God if you laugh, I’m outta here.” Claire straightened her gaze and watched him with precision while she wondered if he was already analyzing her answers, or maybe that was a different area and expertise of law enforcement. He promised to play fair and squeezed her hand gently for the extra support, furrowing his eyebrows when she delivered the first. “I’ve been arrested.” Despite the determination to remain neutral against _anything_ she said, Owen couldn’t help that his eyebrows lifted in a gesture of surprise. There had to be an amusing story behind it. “I’m not going to say which I think is the lie until you’ve given all three statements, so continue.” 

Claire nodded, admiring the fact that he was willing to play fair and not _judge_ her before hearing all. “I’m a virgin, and I’ve never traveled outside of Illinois.” 

He could take his pick of which he thought was the lie, but either way Claire knew she’d get a laugh out of his reasoning; not before he tried to skirt his way around the top of virginity in order to save her from being offended. It wasn’t like he could assume she was a virgin just by looking at her; that’d be like assuming someone had an accent without hearing them speak. Yet, on the other hand, he knew she wouldn’t just claim that she’d been arrested before without it being true; he was an _officer_ , he had access to records, and he _would_ call her out on being naïve if she thought for a single second that he hadn’t searched her name in every database he could get his fingers on. Fuck what Barry had said to him; just because _Barry_ wasn’t the one showing the pictures or giving the information didn’t mean he couldn’t do some digging of his own. Of course, he’d found where she had been arrested — for protesting — when she was in college. Granted, it was ten years prior and her record (or lack thereof) was practically spotless despite the slight glitch. 

“So then, it’s true?” The corner of his lips twitched into a smirk as he leaned forward, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand, feeling the ridges between each bone, wondering if he would have the same tingling along his spine when he had the chance to do the same with her ribs, to count each as she breathed silently. _If_ he had the chance. He watched as her eyebrows furrowed into a skewed line and just as her lips parted — to chew him out, he was sure — Owen broke into soft laughter. “You’ve never traveled outside of Illinois?” 

It was hard to imagine a life that never led outside of the state, but even more it was a shame that she’d never had the chance to see the rushing waters of Niagara Falls, or to travel to Europe and backpack through the country. When he was young, Owen was naïve in assuming that everyone else was privy to the life he had; parents who were able to support him and his sister through school and into college, enabling him to have the experience of a lifetime. By no means was he spoiled; he learned quickly that life didn’t just _hand_ over lemons, they had to be earned. 

Claire shook her head with a soft smile; why did she doubt him in the first place? Here she was, terrified and kicking herself for admitting that she was a virgin, and when all was said and done, he hadn’t reacted. Owen never once looked at her cross-eyed or stared like she had another head growing out of her neck. He simply continued the conversation as if she hadn’t just admitted that she _had never had sex._  

Which wasn’t completely true; being a virgin could be distinguished in so many ways. It was an idea that had once been cut in half; either having your virginity or had given it away, and then after it was dissected again with the different types of sexual contact, and before anyone could keep track it had spawned off in a hundred different directions. Although, Claire was suspicious when friends said sex was better than masturbation. _Nothing_ could beat _solo night._

And if _anyone_ laughed at her name for it, she would show off her impressive right hook.

“Nope, never.” Being raised by her older sister _and_ a widowed mother, Claire always told people it was a miracle she made it out alive and level-headed. Without any help from her mother—which she never begrudged the woman for—Claire put herself through college by working at a local bookstore. When she graduated with a degree in business, her cheering section consisted of the two most important women in her life; those who raised her.

She didn’t remember taking vacations when she was younger, but by the time she’d graduated from high school, Claire knew her one request. She didn’t want her mother to purchase a fancy laptop as a graduation gift, or a dingy car that wouldn’t get her the few blocks it would take to get to school. No, she wanted to take a trip to what she considered to be the pastry capital of the world. 

The _‘City of Lights’_ was everything Claire had imagined it to be and then some. While she’d wanted to be selfish with the trip and only live out her wildest dreams, Claire knew that she also had to be mindful of her mother’s wishes. Lucky for Claire, Beth had no plans for the trip other than to eat from every bakery in a ten-mile radius of their luxury hotel. 

Over a ten day period, Claire and her mother traveled the streets of Paris, and among the pastries she tasted, Claire had chosen crêpes as her favorite to eat — and once they returned to the states — and bake. Maybe it was the intricacy of the sweet that captured her immediate attention, or maybe that it resembled, in a way, her other favorite food: pancakes. 

Three years later, when their mother was tragically taken from them by a heart attack, it was all Claire could do to hold Karen up. 

There came a point where she had to better herself, and Claire worked endlessly to make her dreams come true. Since she was a young girl, standing on a step-stool next to her mother in order to see over the counter, Claire loved to bake. Cookies, pies, cakes—it was never far out of reach and, if she couldn’t figure out _how,_ her mother was there to help. While the woman had worked two full-time jobs to keep their family of three afloat, Beth’s dream was to own a bakery in the heart of Chicago. 

Claire made her mother’s — and her own — dream come true on the one year anniversary of her mother’s death. _Beth’s,_ her own bakery named after her mother, had been featured in countless city magazines and had a loyal clientele, and happened to be where Claire met Barry for the first time. So, it was only ironic that it was also the place where she was taking Owen for the first time. Or was that her sick sense of ‘ _this could be fate’_ coming into play? 

Owen cocked his head to the side and stared at her, trying to decipher the ever-important question: who was Claire Dearing? He was learning bits and pieces of her, but he wanted to dive right into her soul and see the puzzle in completed form. What made this woman so goddamn intriguing? Was it the way that every answer she gave led to another question that was deeper and more inviting than the preceding? Or, could it have been the way she wasn’t hiding herself or ashamed of answering his open thoughts? 

“Well, then one day we’ll have to venture outside of this lonely state, just for you.”

[…]

By the time dinner had ended and the check was paid, they were both feeling the bubbly champagne but neither cared; they were on their way to _more_ champagne and dessert at her bakery; after, the possibilities were endless. They walked among the Chicago streets, her hand clasped tightly in his own and as he kept her body tucked close to his in a desperate attempt to keep her warm; the winters were atrocious and unforgiving, willing to take anyone prisoner.

The thought of speaking and potentially ruining the moment was far too great of a chance, but there were too many things Owen _needed_ to know, questions he wanted to ask at dinner but was simply awestruck by Claire. 

“Are you going to tell me about your family?” His voice, low and raspy, broke through the comfortable silence between them, and cut through the momentary gust of wind that swarmed around them. Yet, it was just as he asked about her childhood that Claire felt the need to make something clear. 

“— I just want you to know that I’m okay with being a virgin.” 

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ She hadn’t exactly planned to shout to the entire street corner that she was, in fact, part of the virgin’s club. As her exact words circled in her mind as if they were on a turntable destined to ruin her life, Claire couldn’t dig the keys out of her clutch fast enough. _This_ is why she’d decided to use a clutch, and yet, she couldn’t find a pair of goddamn keys. 

It wasn’t until she felt the absence of his hand in hers (or was _her_ hand in _his_?) that Claire looked up to see him standing directly in front of her, toe to toe, his breath fanning over her neck. He smelled of a dark wine laced with lust — which should have made her stop — but Claire desperately wanted more. 

“Just relax for a minute, alright? Let’s find your keys first before we confess any of our hidden secrets to the other Chicagoans in the area.” While he _tried_ to diffuse the embarrassment — or maybe it was the chill of the bitter winter air that was blushing her cheeks — with his poor attempt at a joke, Owen hovered beside her in a somewhat protective stance. 

Once she was able to dig around in her clutch long enough for her chilled fingers to grasp the key to the back door of the bakery, Claire was laughing so hard that her strangled inhales sounded more like suffocation. As she pushed open the door, the aroma hit him like a semi-truck. It was first the scent of simmering apples, coated in cinnamon and sugar, and that was before he even stepped past the threshold.

It wasn’t until Claire reached around to flip on the light that he was able to truly appreciate the hard work she put into the career she adored. And, as she’d mentioned at dinner, it wasn’t work because she loved doing it day in and day out. She invited him inside and flipped the lock as they walked further while remaining quiet to allow him to look around and admire the marble countertops and the stainless steel equipment that decorated the kitchen. 

The eatery portion of the bakery was on another level; everything screamed country-chic in the middle of a roaring city. There were small bouquets of fresh wildflowers sitting on each table, and the menu was a giant chalkboard hanging from the ceiling. While it contained small choices for each menu — pastries, breakfast sandwiches and paninis, even homemade pancakes — Owen had no doubt that no matter how few choices there were, they were all crafted with the expertise only she could bring. 

“Please tell me you’ve already made _something_ for dessert? I don’t think I can handle having to watch you in the kitchen without _tasting_ something first.” The moment he opened his mouth to speak and the words spilled from him, Owen was mentally kicking himself; could he have sounded any more desperate than what he was? _Doubtful._

Luckily for him, Claire was advancing towards him before he even finished his thought and reached out for his wrist. Her fingers could barely fit around but she didn’t let it stop her as she reached forward and gripped the lapel of his peacoat, enabling her to pull him closer. _Should I tell him now or later that I made a cobbler for dessert?_ “You mean you want a preview of what it’ll taste like when you go to heaven? I promise, it’ll be sweeter than you’ve ever imagined.” 

“I don’t care that you’re a virgin.” The words came out in a heated rush, and Owen hardly had a clue why he was even saying it. This woman, this beyond beautiful, intriguing, not to mention intoxicating woman, was the epitome of perfection. Whether or not she saw herself as, Owen knew he would forever have the image of a fiery angel in his mind when thinking of Claire. Plus, her virginity wouldn’t change her worthiness.  

Slow and carefully, Owen cupped her face in both hands and raised her chin so he could gaze down into her emerald eyes. In them, he could see a future, a shelter to call a safe place, someone in who he could bury his deepest fears.

There was no way he could’ve known what was going to happen next, but the moment the window shattered, sending shards of glass flying through space and time, was the same moment their world stopped mid-motion. Suddenly, Owen couldn’t see Claire, couldn’t feel the warmth of her hand pressed to his forearm or her breath whispering across his cheek. Albeit her screams, he couldn’t hear a single thing, not even his own heart as it beat against his chest, threatening to break past the iron cage encompassing it. 

He saw crimson as the cut on his forehead bled into his eye, but it hadn’t stopped him as he advanced towards the front of the bakery, his gaze narrowing in on the shattered window and the bullet holes plunged through the remaining store-front. He narrowed in on the man he witnessed standing on the opposite street corner, a pistol in his left hand, a black tribal sleeve the length of his right bicep. Despite the winter month, his arms were bare, and he had no gloves. In that matter of the few seconds it took for Owen to scream her name and glance over his shoulder at the woman who was now on the floor, when he looked back to the window, the man had vanished into thin air. 

Just as he turned towards the counter where the bullets hit the cash register and the display case, shattering the epitome of what she’d worked so hard to achieve, Owen spotted her limp body from around the corner as if she was luring him out of the danger. In the matter of seconds he ran toward her and plunged his hand into his coat pocket to grab his phone, dialing the numbers he wished he’d never have to use. “This is off-duty Officer Grady, calling from Beth’s Bakery on the corner of East and Merchant. I need a bus and squad, there’s been a shooting. One shot, injuries unknown, suspect still on the loose, armed and dangerous.” 

Owen leaned over her after pocketing his phone, “Claire,” he breathed quietly and pressed two fingers to her neck to check for a pulse; it was weak, but it was there. Even if he wanted to sigh in relief, he wasn’t so naïve to think she was out of danger. As long as they were inside the building, they might as well have been in a war zone. “Come on, goddamnit, wake up,” he growled and threaded both hands beneath her to drag her limp body behind the counter, out of the view of the now glass-less window frames. The man he had recognized, the one who he’d spent months undercover trying to scope out, wouldn’t give up until he had what Owen could only assume he wanted; revenge. 

The world began to spin in the midst of a rage, and time fast-forwarded before his own eyes. One minute he was red with rage, focused on the current suspect (read: attempted murderer), and the next he watched as the red and blue hues swirled together outside the storefront. The first officer to enter was Barry, his eyes wild as he scanned the inside, barely glancing in Owen’s direction only to ask where she was. The blame would be casted later, but Owen wasn’t oblivious to the angered glance he threw at his best friend. He was supposed to protect her, and he’d failed. 

Cornered by a paramedic as the woman pressed a gauze pad to his forehead, Owen shoved at her hand with a strict growl to put her attention on Claire; the goddamn paper-cut on his forehead could wait. He watched with bated-breath as they loaded her onto the stretcher and wheeled her outside into the cold, and he couldn’t help but to think that he should’ve been with her, to hold her hand, to keep her warm. 

“Here,” Barry stepped up beside Owen and forced the silver object into the man’s hand as he nodded towards the door. “You aren’t allowed here, and I’ll come get your statement later, but right now she’s going to need someone there when she wakes up.” 

What Barry hadn’t said was the only thing on Owen’s mind: _if_ she wakes up.

[…]

Driving through the hectic, crowded city streets became a game of off-road fury as he tried to get to the hospital without enduring any injuries of his own, much less without killing anyone else in the process. He drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel as he waited at the red-light, pushing the thoughts from his mind until he glanced down at the center console and his eyes drifted across the switch for the emergency lights. He’d _always_ been a truthful officer, and never had the need to use the sirens when he was off-duty, but if there were ever a time for them, it was now. Without guilt, he flicked the switch and watched as the road parted and cars moved to the shoulder, allowing him a straight shot to the hospital. 

He pulled up to the emergency entrance near the ambulance bay—the same place he would if he were _on_ the clock—and jumped from the squad car, ignoring any and all shouts that were being thrown his way. The majority of them were from the nurses who had grown to know him from his random visits to the emergency room, and a few doctors he’d been friendly with at the bars around the city when he was granted a night off. The only face he wanted to see was that of Kendra, the charge nurse in the emergency department, and the one person who would move mountains so he could see Claire. 

“We heard your call on the radio, and she’s already been wheeled into surgery.” The older woman with graying hair and a sweet face stepped towards him, both hands raised in defense, likely ready to warn him away if he were ready to raise a fight. “If you want to go to the surgery waiting area, I’d be more than happy to let Elise know that you’re here?” 

Elise, Owen’s younger sister and a nurse at the hospital, mostly worked night shifts in the labor and delivery ward, but was often a ‘floater’—a nurse who traveled to different departments within the hospital when needed—in the ER on the weekends. 

Owen groaned and shook his head. The last thing he needed was his sister to leak the news to their parents that he was _seeing_ someone, and he’d be forced to sit back as the news traveled amongst their family until everyone knew. _Yes, because I want to worry about hunting a man down at the same time my parents are hovering about a woman I’m seeing._ “I’ve got this, I’ll tell her later.” Without as much as a goodbye, Owen pushed through the double doors and began the walk to the waiting room, unable to miss the drips of blood lining the floor as he prayed it didn’t belong to the woman he left his heart back in the bakery with. 

Owen didn’t give himself time to sit and think. Instead he paced the hallways around the surgery ward, counting the steps in-between tiles, thinking of questions that he could’ve asked, or another stupid game to play that would give him another reason to know her more. When he ran out of questions, Owen reminded himself that if he dare step on a crack, his mother’s back would break in a heartbeat. It may have been stupid, but it kept his mind off the life-threatening injuries Claire had and the daunting fact that it was entirely his fault. He was painstakingly pulled from his reverie each time the double doors opened in hope that he’d receive some sort of news. Of course, he wasn’t exactly privy to the information, but as far as he knew, Claire didn’t have any family in the area and Barry would let him in on her progress. He didn’t exactly have plans of leaving, either. 

It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning, after he’d settled down in a chair next to Barry to wait out the rest of the surgery, that they’d received a morsel of news — and good news at that — which gave him the slightest bit of hope; Claire had made it through surgery and could have visitors. Even though he begged Barry to go by himself, his best friend wasn’t hearing a single word of it, and threatened to drag Owen by the collar of his polo if he were forced.

When he first stepped over the threshold and into the room, the hopeful smile that had reached the corner of his lips fell the moment he saw the tubes that ended beneath her nose and the lines that fed into her forearm. He couldn’t help but to clench his fists so tight it felt like his knuckles would pop out of the joint, and the heated blood that ran through his veins only increased his need to track down the fucker who did this to _her_. 

_Claire._

They decided to take shifts sitting with her and Owen offered to take the first as Barry stepped out to call Karen, her sister, to inform her of the accident. Although, from what he understood, Karen lived on the opposite side of the city with two boys, but he didn’t doubt that her own sister would want to see her. When Barry returned and they sat in silence, each time he offered to sit while Owen left for a while was met with silence. As hard as it was to watch her laying lifeless, he didn’t want to leave. Maybe it wasn’t his place to be so attached, and even if nothing came of their first date, he still couldn’t bring himself to leave; if something happened, if she took a turn for the worst, he would never forgive himself.

Once Barry realized Owen was _never_ going to leave—at least not until she woke up—he left to return to his apartment and _maybe_ get an hour of sleep, but not before he left strict instructions with Owen; if she as so much flinched, he was to be called immediately. 

“Please, wake up.” 

It was the first time he spoke to her since she’d been wheeled into the solitary, white-washed room from being in recovery for six hours. He’d merely stared at her and his eyes danced across her gentle features, the slope of her jaw as it descended into ivory territory. “If you don’t wake up, how am I supposed to cash in on your deal of a lifetime? I’ll never be able to eat pancakes, not now.” 

Owen leaned his head back against the wall for what felt like a minute, but when he woke up there was the tiniest sliver of light peeking in through the closed curtains, filling the once blackened room with sun, and her voice was filling his head.

“Hey, sleepyhead. I’ve never seen someone out cold like you have been.” While her voice was hoarse and sounded like she was battling a raging lung infection, the moment he looked over to her, Owen knew then that she would always be beautiful. Rough and somewhat beat up? Yes. But, then again, they should see the other guy when he’s done with them. 

Torn between pinching himself and moving close so he could kiss her —which he realized moments later was not something he could just assume he’d be allowed — his face lit up with a smile as he reached across to the bed and gently grabbed her hand. “Goddamnit, Claire, you’re such a brat.” 

Regardless of if the insult (or lack of) was suited for her, Claire pushed forward what she could muster of a smile, content in the fact that he was there with her and _awake_. How long had she watched him sleep before he woke up? It had to be longer than an hour. Hell, a nurse had already been in twice to give her pain medication, and he never even twitched. And the snoring? It didn’t stop, either, and Claire would’ve been upset if it had. The sound — while others may think it is annoying — kept her sane, and reminded her that she was still alive and certainly not alone. “Well, you could always go back to sleep, and then I’ll lay here and continue to watch you.” It wasn’t strange, or creepy, no. _Not in the slightest_. 

Owen didn’t _need_ sleep. Of course, if his worn-down body could speak for itself, it would be a different story. What he _needed_ was to stay awake long enough to apologize to the woman laying in the bed next to him. 

“Claire…” 

A loud groan surfaced from her once she realized what he was going to say. _No one_ started out a sentence so solemnly unless they were going to apologize. “If you’re going to say you’re sorry, you should save it. I heard you whispering it earlier, and you must’ve thought I was asleep.” 

Maybe he’d underestimated the woman who he’d been on _one_ date with, but the corners of his lips tweaked into a small smile. “I can’t help but to keep thinking about what would’ve happened if—” 

“If what, Owen? If I hadn’t woken up? If I’d been shot through the spine and—”

“Don’t joke about that.” 

Claire swallowed thickly and turned her gaze toward the ceiling. How was she supposed to convey the emotions that were bottling up when she knew he wouldn’t truly understand? How was he supposed to? _She_ knew it wasn’t his fault, but to get him to believe the same? It would be impossible, that little she knew. “You know what would really help? If you’ll just stay here, stay and give me some kind of hope. I realize that I barely know you, but you were the last thing I saw that night before everything went dark, and I can’t help but wonder if you’re the light that is meant to be here. And maybe I sound ridiculously delusional because I’m high on pain meds, and I don’t exactly believe in _fate_ , but maybe right now this is where we’re supposed to be.” 

It was in that moment that Owen realized he would do whatever she requested of him. Not only to appease her or to pacify, but because he wanted to see that smile, day after day. 

“I’ll stay, but _only_ if you give me a bite of your jello salad.” 

It wasn’t until hours the next day, when the doctors thought she would be classified as a miracle — there were few stories of a patient being shot in the spine that would make a full recovery — that she started to take a turn for the worst. She hadn’t gone into cardiac arrest, and a embolism hadn’t branched off in her leg and traveled to her lung. Claire realized, when she tried to shift in bed, that she wasn’t able to move her right leg. 

The discovery of it was inevitable and, despite the numerous times the nurses had explained it to her, there was a part of her mind that still wasn’t able to grasp it. She could move if she wanted to; she’d done it before and it would happen again. The pain medications that were fogging her brain weren’t making it easy for the nurses to keep her updated on the status of the spinal-cord injury, and despite the times she was told how _lucky_ she was, Claire began to believe it less. 

Classified as a ‘fall risk’, Claire was only allowed out of bed in the company of someone else. Which, when it was _urgent_ to use the bathroom or simply brush her teeth, she was growing impatient. At times it was growing difficult to continue as the uplifting façade; why should she plaster a smile to her face when there was no one with her? 

Claire couldn’t exactly blame everyone in her life, nor could she ask them _babysit_ her every minute of the day. Karen had a life, one she couldn’t push aside in order to take care of her little sister. Yet, there was always a piece of her that held Karen responsible for the distance put between them after their mother’s sudden death. Claire worked twice as hard to keep them afloat, but she was only twenty-one years old; Karen was nearly thirty, pregnant with her first son, and all of Claire’s work still wasn’t good enough. In the end, Karen and her first husband ended up moving across the city, and they spoke a few times a month, met for Sunday dinner, and Claire had learned that getting Karen to return a phone call was like pulling teeth.

On the other side of town, forced by Claire to head home for a shower and something to eat, Owen stood in the ratty gym on the basement floor of his apartment complex with both hands wrapped in boxing gloves and a mouth guard clenched between his teeth. By no means was it _his_ idea to leave the hospital, but when the woman he was smitten by complained that _he_ was starting to smell, he couldn’t exactly sit there and take it. 

Yet, when he stepped one foot into his bedroom and his gaze zoned in on the safe that sat beneath his dresser, tucked next to the wall where others couldn’t see it, the all too familiar chill raised each hair on the back of his neck. Without following through with unlocking the metal door, Owen could already feel the smooth, cold metal clutched between the palm of his hands, his fingers curled around the handle, one finger ready to pull the trigger. 

One shot is all it would take. One shot and the problems of _her_ world would be solved. 

“ _Owen_?” 

The voice was distant and, if he didn’t know any better, Owen would’ve thought it was a dream. A fucked up dream where he dreamed about his best friend visiting him — which may or may not have happened somewhere along the line — standing behind him with a hand pressed firmly against his shoulder. 

It wasn’t until Owen turned towards Barry that his friend stumbled backwards, both hands raised in defense. “Owen, what the hell are you doing with the gun, man?” 

Maybe, somewhere along the line, he’d planned on popping in bullets and setting out for the ultimate revenge. It wasn’t a _maybe_. He knew where to find the guy who had hurt Claire instead of him, and Owen wasn’t going to let him get off scotch-free. 

“Put the gun down,” Barry growled, his voice low and hesitant, but he didn’t waver in his demand. “You’re not thinking straight, and I get it man, I really do. You want him to suffer like Claire is suffering, but do you think _this_ is going to solve anything? What use are you going to be to her when _you’re_ behind bars?” 

Those weren’t the words Owen wanted to hear; instead, he morphed them in his mind to believe that Barry wanted the same — for the guy to suffer. 

“Have you seen her smile when you step into the hospital room? I don’t care if you slip away for ten minutes to get a soda, whoever in the room isn’t enough, and that’s okay with me. I’m like an older brother to her, but you?” A loud laugh surfaced, “her darkened eyes light up when you step in the room, and she turns into the _old_ Claire, even if it’s just for a minute. You’re helping her, and if you’re gone, if something happens to you, she’s going to revert back to the woman who woke up in that bed after surgery.” 

Reluctantly, Owen stepped forward with the gun outstretched, barrel pointed toward himself. Once Barry took the gun, both men sighed in relief, but not before Owen stared him down.

“I’m going to tell you this once,” Owen growled as he took a step away from the other man. As he dropped both hands to his sides, he curled his fingers into fists until he could feel the strain of the muscles building in his arms, the angered veins matching the thoughts in his head. The fact that he was even speaking these words aloud could get him fired from his job, and the idea that he was saying them for a woman _he just met_ made him somewhat skeptical of his own judgement. “Do me a favor and don’t stand in my way when I find the guy.”

[…]

“Just go home, Barry, I don’t want you here all night _again._ ” By the end of the first week being stuck inside the hospital, unable to be released without _family_ to go home to and a more stable diagnosis, Claire had started to develop what she was calling ‘ _involuntary insanity’_ simply from being kept indoors. Never one to project her raw emotions on others, Claire sank into the sheets and pulled the scratchy material to her chin. If only she could slip beneath the bed and disappear forever.

“I don’t have to stay all night, but don’t you want some company, at least? I’ve barely been here for an hour, and you have yet to even touch your dinner,” he nodded towards the untouched tray of discolored hospital food that was sitting on the bed-stand, only inches away. While he understood the lack of _wanting_ to eat, he still wasn’t willing to watch his best friend wither away into a black hole. 

The inevitable silence hung between them as they stared at each other, willing the other away, until the small knock came from the door. When her gaze met Owen’s, Barry saw the difference between night and day flash in her eyes and, before he knew it, she was _beaming._

It hadn’t exactly gone unnoticed that Owen was visiting the hospital every chance he had; between shifts, early in the morning before he went in, late at night on his way home — which conveniently ended with him sleeping in a chair beside her bed and usually woke with a kink in his neck. The first time he’d left the hospital the day after the shooting, Owen had expected to never be granted entrance back into her life, either by Claire herself or those who surrounded — and cared for — her. He’d witnessed the wary glances Barry had thrown his way, and who could blame him? As many times as he’d told himself he wasn’t good for her — and hadn’t it been proven? — he couldn’t stay away from the hospital that next day. There was such a need to make sure she was _okay_ , and to see with his own eyes that she was still very much alive. Ten minutes into his visit, he realized she wasn’t going to tell him to leave, and Owen adopted the mission by himself; he was going to make sure she made it home in once piece. 

Never did he realize that his world would begin to revolve around the woman who he’d grown to know so well over the past few days. It was a wonder how much time could be chatted away, and Claire missed him when he had to slip out for a few hours, still having an oath to the people of Chicago. But, when he returned as promised, she felt the relief wash over her like a welcomed warm shower, something she still had yet to have the opportunity for. 

“You aren’t allowed to be in the shower alone, Claire, you know that.” Elise, who had stumbled upon her room with her brother’s help the day before, had instantly recognized Claire from the bakery and nearly collapsed from the ultimate fan-girl experience. It wasn’t long before she had taken a liking to the fiery woman. Not to mention she had adopted it upon herself to give Owen the tenth-degree of how he could’ve killed someone who was praised as a _‘hometown heroine_ ’ for her baked goods and the endless local charities she supported.  

“Yeah, yeah, I don’t need to be reminded,” she groaned, passing a berated glance in Barry’s direction. If looks could kill, he’d be a goner. She’d never meant to internalize the pain she was in, but she didn’t feel worthy of blaming Owen for the accident, especially when it wasn’t his fault.

Not that she could exactly convince him of it. For as much time as he’d been spending around her in the cozy (read: depressing) hospital room, each time the night of their first date came up in conversation, he instantly pushed it to the wayside with something up-beat to talk about, or he’d make an excuse to need to leave the room. She hadn’t yet figured out how to corner him about it, but something prodded at the back of her mind and told Claire that it wouldn’t be a conversation worth having until she was out of the hospital, and out of the woods in terms of her health taking a sudden turn. 

As if they were thinking along the same thoughts, Elise and Barry stood at the same time and wished both Claire and Owen goodnight before they excused themselves from the room. Claire leaned over in bed as far as she could to see out beyond the door and, when it was confirmed they were alone, she patted the tiny space on the mattress beside her. “Come on,” she smiled, “they aren’t going to see you, they’re gone.” 

What felt like a dream was simply their reality. Every night when Owen finally pushed himself far enough that he had no other choice than to let his eyes drift closed, he prayed that he wouldn’t wake up in the same hospital room, only because it meant that the past week was just a horrendous nightmare. But, each morning, when he woke to see her sleeping form in the darkness of the room, he said a silent prayer (to a God he had yet to start believing in) for bringing this woman into his life. 

But, reality was a son of a bitch and had a mean right hook. It was simply the idea of crawling into the small bed that could hardly be compared to the one in his apartment that made his stomach flop. _This_ wasn’t how he’d imagined anything with Claire. It was _their_ reality that she had found out she was suffering paralysis in not only her right leg, and yet Claire hadn’t let off steam about it; at least not when Owen was around. She continued to smile at every nurse who entered into the room, even the _vampires_ from hematology who came to take her blood at four in the morning.

“Owen?” 

His gaze snapped up at her voice, just like it had the first night they met, and when he saw her smiling softly as if the world wasn’t tilting on its axis, trying to shake her off, he relaxed and pushed himself out of the chair. He eased himself to the side of the bed and scooted closer, lifting his arm as she curled to his side and rested her head on his chest. 

There were so many things Claire wanted to ask him, but it was never the right time. They talked about his time spent in the navy and how it brought him to law enforcement. She asked about his plans for the future and Owen told her about how he was pushing to get into the FBI, wanting so badly to start a new life, one that would take him different places. He had never once let his family hold him back, and for the first time in his life it was the exact reason he didn't want to leave. Among _others_ ; Barry, Elise…they needed him. 

And Claire? Well, he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave her behind, either. 

“It feels like you’re a million miles away, yet you’re laying in this dingy bed next to me. Where’s your head at, Owen?” 

He shrugged, leaving her imagination open to the possibilities while knowing full well that Claire could picture what he was thinking about. _Her_. The night in the bakery, the moment the gunfire started and the bullets shattered through the glass. “They still haven’t tracked down the shooter, even with the surveillance camera records. Can you believe that? Our city is home to one of the largest law enforcement agencies in this entire country and they can’t figure it out.” 

Of course, it was the twisted truth. _They_ , the police, hadn’t tracked the man who had so cowardly sought out an attack on Owen and ended up hurting someone who wasn’t even involved in the undercover op from a few years back. But, it wasn’t the entire truth; Owen knew who the guy was and intended on revenge.

It had been his first mission after joining the police once he ended his time in the navy. They were looking for fresh faces, men who wouldn’t be recognized by the drug rings in the city and, being the macho man he was, Owen practically volunteered only seconds after the announcement. His entire life, all he wanted was to make a difference. Taking down a drug-ring? _That_ would make an impact on the city he called home, no matter where he lived throughout the world. 

Somewhere along the line, the head of the ring was tipped off to _snitches_ somewhere in the operation, and that was the moment Owen knew his life was over. He was one of the few wearing a wire, and in a moment of panic, he spoke the safe-word. The word that, if _ever_ repeated, sent backup to raid the building in under a minute, and the operation would be over. 

Shots were fired, bullets sprayed the area, and Owen woke up three days later in the very same hospital Claire was now laying in. 

Claire couldn’t express her empathy to him without a quiet sigh passing her lips. This man, this brave, wholesome man who she was falling for, was willing to put his life _and_ career on the line, for what? For _her,_ even when she’d never asked him to. She reached up to rest her hand on his cheek and slowly stroked her thumb across his skin, wishing for ways she could bring some relief to his forever racing mind the same way he had for her.

It had never been his fault; they were the same words the police commissioner had preached to him after Owen was briefed following the shooting. Sure, they couldn’t prove it without solid evidence, but it had been filed away as a drive-by shooting with no connection to Claire. She wasn’t being targeted, there were no threats made before or after that night, but it still hadn’t put Owen’s mind at rest. 

 _He_ had been with her that night; they had been together, standing in the front of the bakery, when the shots were fired. And now, Owen had no other reasoning other than _he_ had been the one to put Claire in danger, and that made it even harder to be laying with her, holding her close to his chest while knowing that he would never be the safe-haven she needed. 

“That night, when I pulled you closer to kiss you, you didn’t hesitate.” Before she could let him get father into his own thoughts, Claire turned his chin towards her and locked her gaze on his as a soft smile lingered at the corners of her lips. “It’s because you wanted to kiss me too, wasn’t it?” 

He laughed, but the same smile she wore never met his lips. How was he supposed to be next to her, be _with_ her, when all he could think about was the next time she was hurt? Would she survive? “I’m sorry, I can’t lay here and pretend that the world is still a great place when that son of a bitch is still running free. I can’t let you be in danger again, Claire.” Despite her best efforts of keeping him firmly against her side, Owen reached for her hand and gently pried her fingers away from his shirt and scooted to the side before standing. “I refuse to let you get hurt _again_ because of me.”

He crossed the room with three easy strides and reached for his black coat, draping it over his arm before lifting his gaze from the cracks in the tile floor to her porcelain features. The pang of guilt ripped through his stomach and found its way to his heart, tearing a hole through the place where she’d buried herself.

“Owen, please,” she gripped the scratchy sheets with both hands as the tears welled in her eyes and began slipping down her cheeks, a silent plea for him to stay. It wasn’t as if she could hop off the bed to chase after him. “Please, you don’t have to do this, you don’t have to leave!”

He shook his head, his decision already made. “I’ve put people in danger before, and I never meant for you to be hurt, too. I refuse to let you get hurt again and I’ll do anything in my power to make sure it doesn’t happen.” Without another word, without a soft goodbye, Owen slipped from the room. 

[…]

After his first stint in an undercover operation, Owen swore to himself, and his family, that nothing would ever again tempt him to slip into such a dark and dangerous world, especially not where drugs were involved. He’d had experience in the navy, and Owen thought he’d seen the extent of what twisted minds could do, but nothing could have prepared him for the world of the international drug trade. Forced to adopt a new identity, complete with making significant changes to his appearance (hello, _jet black_ hair and _grey_ eyes), it was hard to keep two sides of himself alive, and for the course of the operation, Owen had slipped into his alter ego.

Now, while he sat outside the run-down bar, safe behind the locked doors of his truck, Owen was reminded why undercover ops was a life he had locked away in a vault, never to be opened again. His target was the same as it had been years prior, except now he was wanted for more than drug trade; he’d not only hurt but nearly _killed_ Claire, and Owen could care less if it was a single hair this man had plucked from her head. He was going to pay for it. 

So he sat and waited while listening to some bullshit, late-night radio program with the main priority of bringing people closer to their spiritual destiny, which was rich in sick, twisted humor. Clearly, he wasn’t looking to be close to his _‘creator’_ , and if he were, he’d let the wise one upstairs fix what this guy had broken. 

No, Owen had to do it himself. He wanted the utter pleasure of feeling bones crack from the force of his punch, and he craved to see the look of pure, unadulterated fear that would strike the guy dead. Then, and only then, would Owen have the satisfaction of knowing he received the revenge that Claire would never have the opportunity to get. 

For every minute that passed, it felt like hours in its place, and Owen struggled to keep himself awake, but out of fear that he would miss the golden opportunity, he continued to wait until the digital clock read close to last call, and he knew it was only a matter of minutes. Indeed, his blood began to boil when he saw the heavily tattooed man step outside with his arm wrapped around a young woman, one who seemed to not be enjoying his company as much as he would like. 

Owen pushed the door open and climbed out of his truck, dropping a hand to his waist to feel for his concealed weapon, and approached the couple from behind. “Hey, Marco,” his raspy voice surfaced and it was enough to reach out and physically stop the man from taking another step. His shoulders tensed and his arm dropped from the blonde’s waist as Owen took the chance to step between the two, listening as the blonde took off in the opposite direction, the sound of her heels connecting with the pavement was aesthetically pleasing. 

Maybe the guy knew what was coming his way, because the moment Owen threw, and landed, the first punch, there wasn’t a word exchanged between the two. Owen had a solid foot in height over the raven-haired man, with locks that hung to his shoulders. Take away the six inches of arrogance that fled from him, and Owen was already winning two to zero. 

The next four repetitive blows landed the man flat on his back after he stumbled twenty feet into the alley, and Owen’s booming laughter rang out when the other man yelled for him to stop. He dropped to a knee beside him and gripped around Marco’s throat, picking his head up only slightly from the pavement before he slammed it back down, watching as the man’s eyes rolled back into his head if only for a moment. 

“You know why I’m here, don’t you?” He lacked the patience to wait around for an answer, so he spat the words out, slowing a bit to make up for the mental IQ the man was lacking. “If you don’t answer me, so help me God, I will paint your family’s house with your blood, and I won’t stop there.” His crimson vision only deepened with the lack of a response, and he waited until Marco was nearly slack beneath his grip before he lifted his hand and a twisted grin settled over his features as he watched the man struggle to breathe before he was finally able to inhale with a sharp grimace. 

“She didn’t die, so why—”

Those were the famous last words of someone who thought they could lay their hands on the woman Owen cared for and get away with it. He stood up sharply and moved to kick his foot into the notch of the man’s throat, but at the last minute thought again and went straight for sending his foot hurling into the man’s stomach, reveling in the groans that poured from his blood-stained lips. He was an officer of the law, and here he was high as a kite from the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

“Here’s why I’m doing this, in case you need a goddamn recap. Because you’re a sick son of a bitch who nearly killed her, do you understand what that fucking means?” Owen leaned over the man and yanked him to stand by the collar of his shirt before he shoved him to stand against the brick wall, holding him up by the sheer force of his hand pinned against his throat. It certainly didn’t take much more than the average eye to realize the state he was slipping into; eyes were rolling back into his head, one side of his mouth was at a permanent slack, and it took more effort for the man to hold his head up than it should’ve. Regardless, Owen carried on. 

“Open your eyes when I’m talking to you, damnit. You almost took her life, and now I’m going to spare you the suffering of going through the courts system, and take yours. But first, I want you to hear me out, because I’m not doing this as a favor to you, but to her, because the last thing I will _ever_ put her through is sitting on the stand, giving testimony of the night you shot her, simply so you can get a few years behind bars. Then what? In four years, which we all know will be reduced to thirty months for _good behavior_ , you’ll be out on the street again?” 

His laughter tore through the heated silence that hung between them and, before he knew it, Owen had stepped back to watch as the man stumbled before him. Owen drug a hand through his drenched hair as the other fell to his waist and in the matter of seconds he’d unclipped his gun from the holster, cocked the trigger, and was aiming right at the man’s forehead. “Give me one good reason that I shouldn’t make you bleed out here in this goddamn alley. Give me one good reason that you should walk away from this tonight?” 

Although Owen’s breathing was ragged and loud, battling against his thrumming pulse for the main sound raging in his ears, the undeniable sound of a cocked gun came from directly behind him and, in that moment, the high that soared through him and had taken his body for hostage came to a standstill. 

“You have thirty seconds to get yourself together and out of here. Go find a nearby hospital, and if you speak of what happened here tonight, just know that the turnout will be worse than having your brains blown over the streets of Chicago before being dumped in the river.” 

 _Barry_? 

A thick, demanding voice came from behind him, and it was in that moment he knew his best friend wasn’t happy with his choices. “Owen, step forward and place your gun on the ground, and then turn towards me.” Whether or not Owen wanted to swallow the pill, he could hear the uncontrollable fear hidden in his friend’s voice; what would’ve happened if he hadn’t shown up when he did? Would Owen had already gone through will pulling the trigger? Would he be looking at a crime scene that he would have to cover up? When Owen finally turned towards Barry, he watched as the other man reached out and nodded towards the holster on Owen’s belt. 

“I don’t even want to ask what the fuck you were thinking stalking that guy until he was alone and you had your moment of power when you could jump in. And yes, I’ve been here the entire time but when you didn’t come back around the side of the building I knew you were up to something, and low and behold, look what I found, Owen.” His voice echoed from the end of the alleyway and surrounded him. “What the fuck were you thinking? How is _this_ helpful in any way? Do you think Claire would feel good if she knew you were beating the living shit out of him?”

The expression that fell to Owen’s features must have been enough to speak the words that were lingering at the tip of his tongue, and soon enough he watched as Barry shook his head, his dark eyes casting towards the sky before he looked back to his friend. “No, I’m not going to fucking bring this up to Claire, but maybe you should get your head on straight and then go back to the hospital and apologize for running out like a maniac. She called me in a complete panic, and it took thirty minutes before I could get her to calm down long enough to explain what had happened.” Barry scoffed and hung his head, breathing a loud sigh into the bitter night air. “I’ll bring your gun back to you in the morning, or when you’ve had enough time to calm down after this shit show. You’re not going to need it tonight.” 

Without another glance, Barry turned to walk away, only to turn back once he was ten feet away. “Do me a favor, and the next time you decide you’re going to commit murder, don’t involve Claire. She’s had enough heartbreak for one lifetime, and she doesn’t need to lose another person.”

[…]

Owen had no other choice than to make a stop at his apartment to shower before he was able to head to the hospital. He assumed it would be illogical to show up with blood covering his hands, and split knuckles appeared as if he’d gotten into a brawl with a hefty brick wall and, even though he wore a long sleeved shirt that he could pull down to cover his knuckles, the inevitable paranoia followed him through the halls to Claire’s room. 

Her muffled hiccups could be heard as his feet carried him far too fast down the hallway only to stand outside the closed door. If he turned around and left now, he was certain Barry would come to his apartment and give him the same fate he left Marco with, but if he went inside, if he gave her the false hope that he was going to stick around, he would be doing it to himself. 

_Don’t be such a fucking wimp, she needs you. Go inside._

Before he could talk himself out of it, or find another reason that he didn't deserve to be in the room with her, he knocked softly on the door and pushed it open when he heard her soft voice on the other side. Unfortunately, he was unprepared for the shot to the heart she delivered simply by looking up at him. Tear stains lined her porcelain skin that had taken on a blotchy appearance, and her eyes were no longer the dazzling emeralds he’d grown to recognize, but were surrounded in a sea of red. 

“Claire,” he breathed and stepped toward the bed until he could drop down to a knee, lifting his hand to her face, but once his thumb grazed her cheek, she flinched and pulled away. Never once in his life could he say he’d been feared by someone he cared about, and the look of utter betrayal on her features confirmed his darkest fear; she was suddenly afraid of him, and there was nothing he could say to ease her worries. 

Instead, he slowly coiled back into the chair, the same one he’d been sleeping in since the night she went into the hospital. It was in the exact spot as he’d left it, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Barry had sat in the same spot. Had he comforted Claire when she was panicking and sobs tore through her chest? 

The silence was all but consuming him as he stared at the edge of the bed, the one he had laid on numerous times with her head against his chest. Lifting his gaze, he was taken aback, inhaling sharply as he saw her gaze narrowed on him. So, she seemed to be upset (rightfully so?) but they were making strides toward talking, or so he told himself. Granted, he was never one for making outright assumptions, but Owen also couldn’t sit back as he witnessed her heart tearing from her chest. He stood and crossed the inches between the chair and the bed, which could have been scaling the Grand Canyon, before he gently reached for her hand that rested against the crummy mattress.

Claire inhaled sharply at his touch and her eyes fluttered closed, afraid that if she looked up the tears would start again. Without thinking, she glided her thumb across his knuckles, wincing when he groaned at the slight pain. Claire was smart enough to know that she shouldn’t ask where the slices in his sun-kissed skin came from; and, to be frank, she didn’t want to know if he had killed for her, whether it be a punching bag or a human he used as one. 

He lowered himself to sit beside her, one leg hitched onto the bed as the railing dug into his other, but the discomfort was worth it. He’d nearly beat a man to death for the woman who had stolen his heart in a single night, and he would endure all the pain just to be forgiven. Gingerly, with the utmost care, he leaned in and pressed his lips just below her collar bone, the rough material of the hospital gown scratching across his lips. He kissed her heart and lingered as he felt her sigh, chest deflating, before he lifted his lips to her neck. 

“I begged you not to leave, and you were still able to turn and walk out that door.” Her voice cut through the inches of space between them, but she wasn’t asking him to stop; self-control was something she currently lacked, a shift within that spoke to needing him. Owen continued on the pursuit of proving that he was wrong in leaving, that he should have stayed, but his heart had been torn by the desire in his gut to hurt the man who did this to her. He gently nipped at the skin over her pulse, and the reaction from her entire body was enough to surge into him.

“Please,” he brought a hand to rest behind her neck and gently cupped her cheek in the other. Before he could say another word — partially because he trusted his voice would betray him — he pressed a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss to her jaw and began to trail his lips to her chin, then kissed the very tip of her nose and forehead moments before realizing he was crying. The turn of emotions and thoughts that scattered through his mind were irreversible — there was no changing the heart when it decided on love. There was no telling the heart that feelings weren’t genuine, or feigned. “I’ll do anything to make you feel better, I swear.”

The tears summoned no noise, and Claire didn’t pull away to point them out. Instead, she lifted a hand — one that had no tubes prodded into her veins — and gently brushed her thumb across his cheek. There wasn’t a single doubt in her mind of what he was asking with his pleads; Claire knew from the way he kissed her so openly and broke down for her to see that it could only mean one thing. 

“Stay,” she whispered, the single syllable nearly inaudible, but she knew he would hear it. If not with her voice, then in the way her heart skipped every other beat, creating a symphony of unspoken thoughts and wounds that needed patched. She couldn’t expect a miracle from him, nor was she looking for one, but in the moments of silence, the only thing she could hear was her heart tugging him closer. “I’m not asking you to love me, I’m just asking you to stay.”

[…]

“Come on, Claire, you’ve got three feet to walk and then you can take a break!” While it wasn’t exactly Elise’s job to be prowling around the physical therapy department, she had it on strict orders from her brother to keep a close eye on Claire. Plus, it made it easier that she got along with the woman. They had common ground — such as their shared love for all things sweet — and, after Elise slipped up about being desperate to see the Eiffel Tower at night, Claire nearly lost herself in the fact that they had something else to talk about. 

Listen, it was all about the little things in life.

Yet, when Elise looked up to see the fiery redhead glaring at her, she knew she’d chosen wrong. After finishing ten days in the hospital, Claire was making strides towards the day she’d be able to leave, but she still had mountains to climb. In the most recent assessment, the physical therapists determined that she was not yet ready to be released from the primary use of a wheelchair, with intermittent use of hand-crutches for short distant walks. Which Claire basically summed up as going to the bathroom because, _“did you know I don’t have a kitchen in this crummy hotel room?”_

Clearly, her sense of humor had yet to return.

“I don’t want to walk three more feet, Elise,” she growled, lowering her chin to press against her chest as the tears welled behind the façade she’d built since arriving. Every single day there were doctors who came in and out of her room, promising that she’d made more progress than they’d even thought possible. Once the tears began to trickle from the corner of her eyes, Claire hardly made the effort to put a stop to them, even as they stole her breath away. 

“Oh, Claire,” Elise pushed the wheelchair closer before she rounded the side and reached out for the woman’s arm, gently holding onto Claire until she was able to look up. “This is going to get easier, okay? I know you don’t see it right now, but it’ll get there. Look how far you’ve —” Elise stopped dead in her tracks once she realized what she’d said; she was giving the same dose of bullshit hope that was being spoon-fed on a daily basis to the woman she’d grown to like. Without opening her mouth again for fear of shoving her foot right back in, the younger woman gently helped Claire into the wheelchair before making her comfortable, putting her feet up on the small plastic footrest, and grabbed the hand crutches to secure in the holder on the back of the chair.

“I’ll tell you what, let’s get you back to your room and I’ll go down to the cafeteria and bring you back some ice cream, okay? Fuck the low sodium bullshit diet that they have you on, you can splurge for one night.” No one had to know, and if anyone asked, she’d simply blame it on her brother. 

On the way back to her room, Elise took Claire down the hallways that were restricted to employee use and gave what she hoped to be somewhat of a ‘back-lot tour’. Minus the fact that there wasn’t much to see in the hospital aside from the statue of a manatee in the front that — after being there for six years — she still hadn’t figured out the story behind.

When they finally made it back to the familiar white walls that Claire was growing tired of waking up to, Elise barely pushed Claire a foot inside before she jumped back, raising a hand to her mouth as a loud shriek escaped, echoing off the walls. “Owen, you asshole, what are you doing here?” _Especially when you told me you had to work tonight._ Elise couldn’t help but let a stray glance drift across her brother’s frame, cautiously checking for any wounds. When she found no sign of danger, her gaze darted to his; was something else wrong?

Before she could question the fear that rose in the back of her throat, Owen held up a brown paper sack with a goofy grin, shaking the bag from side to side before he growled and reached to drop the crinkled bag on the bedside table. “What? Is it now a crime to bring dinner to my—” he swallowed thickly and quickly looked between the two women as the thoughts raced in his mind. _For fuck’s sake, man, get your shit together._ “—burritos,” he sputtered without a second thought, but was quick to point to the bag. “I made burritos for dinner, and instead of eating by myself, holed up in my apartment, I figured we could at least share it and I would have the best company.”

Forgotten as the awkward bystander who was slowly backing toward the door, Elise watched as her smitten brother smiled at the realization that Claire had silently nodded, the grin never once parting from her features. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that her brother was growing closer to Claire, but she hadn’t expected for it to happen like _this_. When was the last time her brother had dropped his _career_ to take care for someone? By no means was he a selfish man, but the last time he’d gotten off the track for a woman, _Elise_ was the one to pick him up off the bathroom floor when he drank himself into a stupor. When she snapped back into reality, she took a quick glance at her brother, passing him a soft smile, before she slipped from the room. Maybe he didn't want her sisterly advice now, but she hoped that at some point, he would. 

Once he nudged the wheelchair closer to the edge of the bed, Owen stood behind her and lifted his arms to help brace her, only if she needed it. He’d been with her at the hospital long enough and came to find out her biggest pet peeve was hovering. Not when she was being _cared_ for, or when Karen called each night and wanted to talk for _hours_ when the only thing Claire wanted was to sleep. There was a difference. It was the times when the nurses would come in and act like she was another eighty-year-old patient who could not care for themselves.

Two nights before, one that had followed a day of horrendous physical and occupational therapy, Claire had had enough. After buzzing the nurses’ station _four_ times to ask if someone could come in and guide her to the restroom (because being a ‘fall risk’ would forever be attached to her wrist), thus being forced to wait nearly an hour, she decided to take it into her own hands. When Owen walked in half an hour later to find her curled on the floor, tears stained on her cheeks — not from pain but from _laughter_ — he knelt on the ground and took her face in his hands, kissing her lightly, guiding his tongue over her bottom lip. It was merely the second time he had kissed her, but he wanted to make a habit of it.

That night, when he woke up with a cold sweat from the unfathomable nightmare, his heart was heavy with the fear of what he would have to do. Since then, Owen had been searching for the right time to tell her the truth. He couldn’t wait forever — the FBI wasn’t going to wait around, and this was his career. But Claire? Claire had his _heart_. And he hadn’t expected for it to happen, he didn’t think going on _one_ date was going to make him want to put his future on hold to stick around and see where things progressed, only to realize, too late, that he was in deep. 

“Are you going to take a bite of your dinner, or simply sit there and stare at me?” Claire’s lips turned at the corners, a smile that nearly reached the light of her eyes. “Because, if you aren’t, I’m totally willing to taste it. You know, so I can do a review on it later.” The softness in her voice made him want to curl on the clouds she painted with her words, if only to push away the daunting thoughts of what was to come. 

Owen took the opportunity to scoot closer and traced his hand over her knee, laughing quietly as she squirmed beneath his touch. Fuck, he was going to miss her. He would miss her laugh — while distant — he liked to believe that while she was still in pain, it was in those moments where he saw the woman he’d met on that first night in the small restaurant where he held her hand too long, but she didn’t seem to mind. The same woman who flirted mercilessly and didn’t play by the rules. 

 _This isn’t fair to her._ He knew that, of course he did, and Owen knew why he’d come to see her, but in the moment between telling himself to finally come out with the truth and opening his mouth, Claire had already taken the moment into her own hands. She reached up and cupped his chin in the palm of her hand, the chill of her long, slender fingers cut through his core. “I want to know what you taste like when you’re looking at me as if you’re planning the ways to devour me,” she whispered against his lips after pulling him closer. 

In order to stop his body from crushing her, Owen quickly moved the cold, forgotten dinner to the bedside table and immediately turned to wedge a knee between her thighs and pressed a hand to the pillow beside her head. He kissed her tenderly, breathing the silent apologies against her lips as she returned them with the forgotten promise of not falling in love. He molded her body beneath his hands as he snaked his touch beneath the hospital gown, and held her waist as if she were a shelter to bare through the storm. 

They didn’t push to take it further in the heat of the moment, and when their greedy hands settled for holding the other close enough to count the bated breaths slipping past the other’s lips, they calmed and rested back. Neither of them fell asleep at first, instead they laid awake and shared their fears of the future. While Owen expressed his fear of the indefinite future, one that refused to entertain his need to know what exactly it was hiding, Claire breathed the words she never wanted to cross her lips and confided in him the fear of taking her life back, and the paralyzing anxiety of being bound to a wheelchair until the day she would take her last breath.  

With Elise’s promise of ice cream fading in the back of her mind, Claire curled against Owen’s chest as he held her gently, and let her eyes drift closed, even as she felt the warmth of his lips press against her forehead. It wasn’t long before she was drifting into a restful sleep, and it was the same moment Owen’s stomach dropped. He knew his actions were cowardly and from this moment on, he would forever be defined by them. He wouldn’t be known as the guy who gave his heart to a girl; he’d be the guy who _took_ hers away. 

He waited for as long as he could possibly stand to be so close to her, and soaked up the time he had left just sitting with Claire. He held her while she slept and gently brushed hair away from her face so she could kiss her temple, and cheek. Owen knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he can’t be selfish with her — not anymore. Maybe before, when he knew his heart wasn’t willing to let go of what they _could_ have for the chance to make his career with the FBI, but now that he realized what would always be lingering if he stuck around? It was unfair, and he couldn’t sit by and be the potential for more pain.

Owen moved slowly, determined to not wake up the sleeping beauty in his arms, and couldn’t help but to breathe a sigh of relief once he stood beside the bed, looking down to her, as he shook his head. For a moment, he rattled his mind for a way out of this nightmare; there wasn’t an ounce of his soul that _wanted_ to hurt Claire. 

He was trying to _protect_ her. 

The days leading up to this moment, Owen tried to write her a letter. Sure, it was terrible enough to think that he was going to leave in the middle of the night but, while he hadn’t planned it this way, in the past hours he had decided he wouldn’t be able to face her, so see her crumble as she had the night he ran off to play Batman. Every single piece of paper he wrote on — even the ones where he hadn’t perfected the curve of the ‘C’ in her name, or the dot over the ‘i’ couldn’t been seen clearly enough — piled in the trashcan in his apartment. 

 _I can’t leave without a goodbye._ Owen peered around the darkened room before he spotted the brown paper bag that sat crumpled on the bedside table. It was a last-ditch effort, but even he wouldn’t forgive himself if he left without explaining himself. Bent over the table, he began to write. 

 _Claire,_  
  
Let me first start by saying I’m sorry. I know those words won’t help, nor will they be an easy fix, or the means for forgiveness, and I don’t know if that’s something you’ll ever be able to give me.  
  
I don’t think it’ll help you to know where I’m going, but I’m taking an offer that has been lingering ever since our first date. Hours before we met for our first date, I found out that I’d been accepted into the FBI Academy, in Washington, D.C., and I can’t turn it down. Not when this has been a goal of mine since I decided to get into law enforcement. But, in all of this mess, I can say that I’m sorry; I’m sorry that you got swept up in the errors of my past, and that you were caught in the crossfire when you should’ve never been put in danger.   
  
I hate to say that you won’t be able to get ahold of me, but for a while, it’ll be that way. Just know that, if you do need anything, you’ve got a great friend in Barry, and I know that he’ll go to the ends of the earth for you. And, I have quite the speculation that my sister will love you more than she loves me, especially after knowing I’ve left you this letter. 

_Take care of yourself,_

_Owen_

He hastily tossed the bag on the table and, before he had another chance to correct himself — to crumple the bag and throw it into the garbage can, or to call the director at the academy and give notice that he wouldn’t be arriving — Owen snatched his leather jacket from the arm of the bedside chair and started out the door. He didn’t take another look at Claire, instead remembering her in his mind of the day he left, when she sobbed and cried because, in a sick and twisted way, it made him feel better knowing she would hate him in the morning for leaving, instead of trying to ruin herself by tracking him down. 

Just as he turned the corner, he heard the small voice calling after him, once, twice, and on the third time, he finally turned to see a young nurse running towards him, trying to keep her voice down to meet the ‘nighttime manners’ the floor was strict on. “Mr. Grady? Did you want me to tell her you left for the evening?” 

Owen lifted a hand to swipe beneath his eye and wiped away a tear, shaking his head. _Fuck, say something_. “No, thank you,” he inwardly grimaced and tried to push forward a smile, one that wasn’t going to give up willingly. “She’ll know.” 

[…]

“Jesus, Claire, for the last time, I don’t know anything except for what I’ve been telling you for the past month. He never answers his phone and, for all that I know, he could be undercover, and without knowledge of who his handler is, I can’t get to him.” Barry paced in the kitchen, diverting his gaze from Claire. If she found out he had been lying to her since Owen _vanished_ from the face of the earth, she would never trust him again. 

He didn’t want to lie to her.

It was planned. Planned was a strong word, but Owen hadn’t exactly known that he would be accepted into the academy. Instead, the morning of their date, he was called about his acceptance into one of the most elite programs in the country, and he couldn’t say no. Yet, after the accident, he continued to put it off, always making an excuse to stay another day, to spend another night holding her against his chest, making sure nothing else in the world could hurt her. The last thing she needed was to be hurt, and by sticking around and avoiding the inevitable, he would only make the hole inside her heart burn larger when he did leave.

He’d accepted the position to be a trainee with the FBI; it’d always been a dream of his, and the only way he was ever going to live up to those aspirations was to have a clean start. The same night he left Claire in the hospital room, sleeping soundly and curled on her side, he called in a favor to the Assistant Director of the FBI, and shipped out to Quantico, Virginia the next morning, taking his place within the academy. 

There was a piece of him that knew this wasn’t right. There was only so much time two people could spend together before a natural relationship began to form, and it just so happened that she had managed to steal his heart right from the depths of his chest. Other than _wanting_ to be with her, he also had the desire to keep her safe. And, once he reminded himself what put her in that hospital bed, Owen was convinced it was the only way to keep her safe. 

It had been a month since she heard from him. A month without the steady force that was Owen, and Claire thought she was going insane. Released from the hospital under the condition that she had someone to stay with — which Barry was the lucky recipient of — and the promise of outpatient rehab three times a week, she was gone from the hospital a week after his departure without a glance back. In a sick way, it was a move in the right direction. Being in the room of sterile while walls only reminded her of the man she’d began to fall for; someone she was beginning to trust. 

When she wasn’t at physical therapy or talking with investors who wanted to _pay_ her to reopen _Beth’s_ , Claire devoted most of her time to searching for Owen. With a Macbook and a history of devotion to Google, she’d found his social media accounts thanks to Barry — even if he was no longer active on his own. There was no sign of him on Facebook, the last post had been a solid month before they’d met, and there were no other leads. Even her calls to him went unreturned, not that it was a surprise. He’d wanted to fall off the face of the earth, to erase himself completely, and it’s exactly what he’d done. 

“I don’t believe you,” she cringed as the words escaped her, turning slightly as she grabbed for the crutches. While she wasn’t supposed to be out of the wheelchair for long, Claire hardly cared at this moment. Fuck the wheelchair. Fuck being diagnosed as _paralyzed_. Despite the pain, Claire inched towards him and narrowed her gaze, targeting the wary look in his eyes. She didn’t need to be a criminal profiler or a body language expert to know her best friend was purposely keeping something from her. “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?” 

“I’m _protecting_ you, Claire. Just stop, okay? He’s _gone_ , and he isn’t coming back.” 

The rage consumed her in the matter of a moment as she threw her crutches to the ground and grabbed for the wheelchair; it was the most damage she could do and, if he were close enough to hit with the metal, she would’ve. “Do you know how goddamn infuriating you are? I don’t need your fucking protection, what I need is for you to tell me where Owen is and how the hell I can get in contact with him.” 

Barry rolled his neck and stared up at the ceiling, trying his best to swallow the anger that was building in his chest. Why was she incapable of seeing how wrong Owen was for her? He was a runner, and had ambitions taller than himself. Yet, Barry knew that if he didn’t tell her, if he kept _this_ from her, there was a fair chance that Claire would never be able to forgive him. He felt himself giving in, the doubts in his mind fading away as he searched her features for something to stop him from giving away his best friend’s secret and, when he couldn’t, his shoulders sagged and his gaze fell to the floor. As much as he wanted to tell her to sit down in the wheelchair, to _rest_ for as long as she could, he didn’t. Claire wouldn’t listen, not until he gave her what she so desperately wanted. 

“He’s in town for the weekend.” 

[…] 

“Owen, hey, it’s Barry. I know I wasn’t supposed to see you when you’re home over the weekend, I know this is Elise’s weekend to have you to herself, but it’s Claire. She…she found out about you being home. I told her, and since she hasn’t gotten out of bed for two days, she claims that she isn’t going to eat, and that she’ll never talk to me once she’s up on her feet and able to move back into her apartment. I…I know this sounds selfish, but I need you to come over here. I need you to talk to her, she’ll listen to you before me. Call me back, if you can. If you don’t, I’ll know you didn’t get this.” 

As he listened to the voicemail for the last time, Owen pocketed his phone and tilted his head back to look up at Barry’s apartment building, still questioning if this was the right decision. Wasn’t the purpose of leaving so that they could continue with their lives and not be in any danger? Clearly, it had been working. 

Until now. 

While he tried to make it seem that he’d disappeared, even Owen knew he couldn’t. That would mean not speaking to Elise and Barry, on top of avoiding Claire, and it wasn’t something he was willing to do. He wouldn’t put his relationship with his sister on the line, nor was he willing to lose track of Claire. When he first left, he relied on Elise for updates on her progress, but once Claire was discharged from the hospital, ties were cut, and getting details out of Barry was worse than pulling teeth.

After he was buzzed inside, Owen climbed several flights of stairs before he was standing outside of Barry’s apartment, one hand raised to knock just as the door was pulled open, narrowly avoiding ripping it from its hinges. “Well, if it isn’t the devil in disguise.” 

Without the invitation, Owen nudged the door open and walked inside, dropping his duffel to the ground just inside the foyer. “Yeah, well, the devil has stops to make and doesn’t exactly have a _charged_ cell phone right now, so I had to make do with what I have.” Nudging his hand inside his pocket, Owen pulled out an iPhone that appeared to have taken one too many falls, or maybe perhaps had an unlucky encounter with a car. 

He barely gave time to pass between them before he nodded towards the hallway where Barry’s guest bedroom was, hoping that she was still there and hadn’t fled once finding out he was coming. “Back there?” Once it was confirmed with a short nod, Owen didn’t hesitate in walking towards the room; whatever waited for him — whether it was the same Claire he left or a woman who he didn’t recognize — he would be able to deal with. 

Minus the small part of him that wasn’t able to keep up the _tough guy_ act once he reached the bedroom door. One hand gripped the doorknob while the other knocked softly against the wood, waiting until he heard her from inside to open the door. Until he didn’t and he was kept wondering if she was ignoring his presence or sleeping. Or, maybe she’d fled once Barry told her that he’d be in town for the weekend; but there were few places she could make it to when hobbling along on crutches and still taking pain medication. 

“Claire?” He pushed the door open slowly to reveal her small frame laying in bed, her back turned towards the door, and the small sliver of skin revealed from where her shirt had ridden up. He felt the jolt of electricity swarm down his spine as the voice in his head told him to turn and leave. This wasn’t the right move for anyone, especially not the woman he had given his heart to in the matter of a week. 

Elise had _‘diagnosed_ ’ him as thinking with the brain that had suffered the trauma of watching her being shot before loaded into the ambulance, but he politely disagreed. During his time in the navy, it was a wonder he made it out without a touch of PTSD, especially when his fellow soldiers weren’t nearly as lucky. He knew what it could do to a person, the effect it had on their entire life and those closest to them. And yet, only hours after meeting her, he knew she was the one he wanted to be with. 

Except that fate doesn’t care if you believe in love at first sight or if you’re stupid enough to believe that going through something traumatic with someone else pulls you closer together. If it’s meant to be, fate will make it happen. Fate didn’t seem to be working in his favor.

“So, it’s true, you really are back?” Her hoarse voice brought him back to the present as he looked across the room to see her sitting up on the side of the bed, her bare legs dangling over the side, a drastic difference in the two. Her left leg was still shaped and muscular with the lines in her upper thighs that created the barrier between the different muscles, while her right leg merely hung over the side, the muscles visibly atrophied. He couldn’t decide if this meant she’d given up on physical therapy, or if the doctors were correct with their prognosis — her right side would always suffer more than the left. 

Owen nodded and crossed both arms over his chest. “Yeah, I was granted leave for the weekend. Elise is graduating with her Masters in nursing tomorrow, and I promised her when she started the program, far before I went to Quantico, that I wouldn’t miss it.” 

A shrill laugh slipped past her lips and she diverted her gaze to the ceiling, watching the fan rotate as she tried to forget about the way his gaze searing through to her soul made her head spin. “Seems like you’re good at keeping at least one promise you made.”

The words struck through him like the end of a dagger, reaching straight into his heart to carve a hole, somewhat like he imagined she’d felt when he pulled the rug from beneath her and walked out on his own promise. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, shaking his head, “I had to do it, I had to leave, and I wanted you to stay safe, Claire. It seemed like the only option.”

“I’m so tired of people trying to _protect_ me. Who do you think you were protecting by leaving, Owen? If you were worried about protecting Barry, I think he can take care of that by himself.” Claire shot a fiery glance at the wall behind him and willed herself to not look him in the eye; if she did, she was guaranteed to be a goner. “And the _only_ option? Are you fucking kidding me right now?” 

A dark laugh escaped him as he stepped towards the edge of the bed, torn between reaching out to touch her leg and standing on the opposite side of the room in fear that she could potentially do some damage, especially with the metal crutches. “I was trying to protect those around me, is that honestly so bad?” 

“You were trying to _protect_ us? Exactly how was that supposed to work, Owen?” Despite trying to keep a calm and level tone, her voice raised until she was nearly screaming at him. “Wake up and smell the goddamn roses, Owen. I don’t need protection, what I needed was for you to stay here long enough to make good on your promises. Protection means whit if you aren’t here.” 

Owen scoffed, reaching up to run a hand across his buzzed head, thanks to the training academy. Apparently, he’d lost more of himself than even he realized during his short time away. It would never be enough to tell her that every day since he left was filled with thoughts of her and when the next time he’d be able to see her would be, even if it boiled down to seeing her without Claire knowing. Words like that weren’t believable, even Owen knew. She could easily counter with the proposal that, if he were being truthful and had thought about her every day, he would’ve never left. “You don’t need protection but yet you’re asking me to explain the reasons why I didn’t stay here and _protect you_?” What was he missing in this story? 

Even if Claire desperately wanted to grab her crutches and run from the room without having to speak to him again, she knew she couldn’t; as much as she hated it, him being here was what she’d wished for since the day he left and fell off the grid. Leaving now would be her own mistake, and one she would never be able to forgive herself for. “I wanted you to stay because I thought you meant everything you said during our time, especially the part when you said you’d give anything to make me feel better. And I told you that having you here with me was all I would need to make me feel even half like myself, and you still ran.” 

As she spoke, Owen began to walk towards her, closing the distance between them before she held up a hand in defense. “Please, don’t,” her voice grew quiet as she clenched her eyes closed, willing him to disappear. Now that he was _here_ she regretted ever wanting him to come back; it would kill her to watch him leave again. “You’re going to make this worse and I can’t —” 

“Please,” he was only inches before her, so close that he could smell the soft aroma of mint filling the space between them, and had to restrain himself to not reach out to brush his fingertips across her cheek. Now that he was within reach, Owen wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms, to hold her tight. They didn’t need words; the last thing he wanted was to say the wrong thing and be forced to leave. “Tell me what I can do to fix this, Claire.” 

Never had she once wanted more to turn into a selfish person who acted out of greed or a need to keep others close just for the promise that they wouldn’t leave, but even that wouldn’t stop fate from getting in the way. Yet, for the first time in her entire life, she _wanted_ to beg him to stay and give him reasons to come back, to choose _her_ , to settle for his job in Chicago instead of bettering himself and his career with the FBI. “I can’t ask you to stay, because at the end of the day you’re just a guy and I’m just a girl who had a first date and hit it off just before I got shot.” 

The sobs that followed her words broke his heart into two pieces, two different sides of the story that he wanted to suture back together. Without hesitation, Owen reached forward and cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand as his other found her waist, holding her steady. He ducked his head to her ear and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, “just breathe, okay?” _I’m here, now._

She didn’t want to believe in his words for the fact that he’d let her down once before, but Claire barely had the strength in her body to hold herself up much less push him away. Slowly, she reached out to wrap both arms around his neck and held herself close as tears eventually found their way to the surface. It was useless in trying to reign them in; he’d seen her cry before and something told her it wouldn’t be the last time. 

Owen held her tenderly, cupping her waist as if she were the trigger to a bomb and one wrong move, one shift in the wrong direction, and everything would shatter around them. He didn’t push her to climb back into bed nor did he ask if she wanted to talk further, instead he waited for her cue to move closer to the bed and when he felt her legs trembling, Owen didn’t hesitate to slip a hand beneath her knees and lift her into bed. Even if he knew the answer, Owen stood quietly until she silently reached out for him and threaded her fingers through his. “There’s more room in this bed then there was in the hospital.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Owen slipped around to the other side of the bed and lifted the covers before joining her. Was it wrong to tell her she felt smaller pressed against him? Had it been long enough to change the way she fit against his chest, or was it simply his mind playing tricks on him? The moment he heard her sigh, Owen turned his attention back to her, mindlessly resting a hand on her waist as he began tracing incoherent patterns against her hip. 

“I want to ask, but I don’t want to know details about what stole you away.” Her voice, albeit small, reminded him of what he felt the first night they’d met; the night he’d been on top of the world. He knew the moment he spotted her that she was the one, and it was only further confirmed when their _first_ date felt like their _thousandth_. There had been multiple times over the month since he’d fled that he wondered what would have happened had the shooting never been a reality; what would their night had turned into? 

Owen sighed and nodded, keeping up with her silent thoughts. It was natural for her to be curious about the other piece of his heart, the one that tugged him in an opposite direction. “I never told you this, but the morning of our first date, I was told that I made it in as a trainee with the FBI. Then, once the shooting happened, I put off leaving so that I could be here, to make sure you were okay.” Then, once he had decided to leave, It was a cowardly decision, one he’d made with a split second to spare and hadn’t considered anyone’s feelings in the matter. She’d been fine before him and would continue to be after. As for Elise and Barry, they were used to him following his goals and dreams, it wouldn’t have been much of a surprise. Now that he was home, though, he was starting to see that maybe it wasn’t the best decision. Maybe there would’ve been another way to sort it out. 

“So, you decided that was it, that you’d just leave and then what? Never come back?” Claire reached out for his hand and twisted her fingers into his before lifting his hand to her lips, peppering kisses across his somewhat bruised knuckles. Owen sighed and shook his head as he realized there was no other way to answer the question. In short, yes, he had planned on staying away for as long as he possibly could, but if he were to leave his explanation there it would seem heartless, when in reality he wanted to do what was best for her, but no explanation would allow him to cross that point. 

“I wouldn’t have fallen off the grid forever. At most for six months, and then I would’ve come back when academy was over and I knew it was safe to come home.”

Claire cocked her head to the side and pressed her eyebrows into a tight line. “Safe for who, Owen?” 

“You.” 

The words rolled effortlessly off his tongue and it was that simple hint that clued Claire into knowing that he wasn’t lying to her. Why would he? There really wasn’t a reason to. But she could see the appeal of leaving, starting a new life elsewhere, and never turning back. There was nothing holding him to Chicago, albeit Elise, but he could see his sister anytime he wanted; it just didn’t make sense. Careful not to jar her leg, Claire slowly turned over to face him, slipping her leg between his. He’d only been gone for a month — which felt like an entire year — and yet they were back to being so comfortable around each other. “I was safe, I _am_ safe. I’m safe with you here, how don’t you see that?”

Owen shook his head as he reached between them, slipping his hand under her shirt to rest the palm of his hand flat against her chest. He could feel her heart beat, and it calmed him all the more. “When you were asleep in the hospital at night, I would sit by your side and hold your hand, tracing my thumb across your wrist where I could feel your pulse, and I promised myself that I would never once put you in harm’s way again, especially after seeing the look on Barry’s face when he busted through the front door of the bakery that night. You could’ve died, Claire.” 

“Yeah, and I could fall into oncoming traffic, or get struck by lightning, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to live my life in fear of that happening. If there’s anything I’ve learned from this—”

“Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to say…” 

Claire shot him a glare before she continued, “before you rudely interrupted me, I was going to say that I’ve learned that I can’t live in fear. When I woke up out of the anesthesia, I expected my entire life to be over, and here I am. Sure, I may never regain the control of my legs, but I still have my life, and I can’t stop thinking about what I’m being told. I don’t believe in fate or destiny but goddamnit, I can’t help but think I was given a second chance for a _reason_ , Owen, and every time I try to shake that feeling, _you’re_ in my head.” Her eyes fluttered closed and her breathing eventually evened out, and as he thought she’d started falling into a soft dream, her feather-soft voice returned, “the reason will always be you.” 

His breath caught in his throat and unleashed an inaudible gasp as she poured her heart into the small space between them, counting on him to keep it safe, and it wasn’t until this moment that he realized he’d lost the battle. The battle against his own heart, and the one against hers. 

“I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t ask you to stay, and it’s the same reason I stopped calling. I knew that, if we did speak, I’d ask you to come back home.” As much as she tried to hide her face in the crook of his neck, her soft tears fell to his skin as she cried softly, soon reaching up to wrap her hand around to the back of his neck, rubbing her nails across the fine hair. “I knew I would find every reason in the book for you to come back here, and I couldn’t find it in my heart to be selfish with you.” 

Owen listened to her quiet sobs as they wracked her body and she began to shake against his chest. While he wanted to pull back and kiss her into a quiet frenzy, he knew it was best that she be given the time to express how she was feeling. But, as her voice eventually trailed off, Owen couldn’t help but want to nudge her into talking again simply from the silence _killing_ him. 

The minutes passed as they laid in silence, their legs tangled in a knot, unaware where one began and the other ended. Maybe she was right; maybe it was meant to be this way. Maybe, in some fucked up parallel universe, the shooting was the way of stopping time, of showing him what was important; to stop running, to stop and smell the roses, and to finally realize that the woman standing in front of him was the person he was meant to be with. “I don’t want to leave, Claire…please believe me.” 

“Then don’t…don’t leave again. Make this your home.” It was fair game that he _wanted_ to stay; she could tell that much simply from the way he was talking. They were no longer battling the reasons he couldn’t stay—her safety—but were discussing between the hasty scoffs and soft breaths all the reasons he _could_. 

He couldn’t stay; he had committed himself to the training academy and knew there would be consequences if he broke his sworn promise, but he couldn’t help but to remember the promises he’d also made to her. If he put the academy over her, what was he was saying about how he valued her? Sure, being in the FBI was a dream of his, but he hadn’t only gone on the date for food and company; he went there to meet—what Barry had warned him could be—the one he was meant to marry. “Then come to D.C. Move to D.C. with _me_ , start a life with _me_.” When he glanced down to see her raised eyebrows and pursed lips, Owen laughed quietly; _that_ hadn’t gone as he’d expected. “I know it’s a long shot, but like you said, if the shooting taught you anything, it’s that you can’t let life pass you by and regret what you hold yourself back on, right?” 

Why he would ever propose such an idea was beyond her, but the moment the surprise settled was when it hit her; what did she have holding her back? There was nothing left in Chicago for her; the bakery was as good as gone, and it wasn’t as if Barry needed her to stick around. But, as fairytale-esque as it all sounded, the doubts were bubbling in the back of her mind, turning her heart into a frenzy and detailing how many ways she could think to say _‘no’._

“Owen, I…I can’t say yes.” There they were, the fears that plagued her mind, turning her entire being into a frenzied mess. No was such a permanent word, and there was no telling what it would do. Would that be the final nail in the coffin? He’d traveled back to see her, to ask if they could be together, and she was pondering the idea of saying _no._

His eyebrows furrowed into a tight line and the corners of his lips curved into a frown, enunciating the words he hadn’t spoken. It certainly wasn’t the answer he’d been looking for, but he had no other choice than to respect her opinion. 

Which hardly sounded like Owen when it came to fighting for what he wanted in life. 

He dropped his forehead to rest in the crook of her neck and pressed his lips against her unusually warm skin. “Don’t answer now,” he sighed, “take some time to think about it. Take a year, if you need it. I just…” Owen desperately wanted her to believe him the next time he said he wanted to be together; that he didn’t want to leave her. 

“Stop talking.” The words rolled straight off her tongue in the matter of seconds, and Claire couldn’t understand where the sudden desire rose from. An hour, a day before, she was cursing his name, swearing up and down the walls that if he ever showed his face again, she would slap him and slam the door in his face. But here was always that piece of her heart, not matter how minuscule, that would always want him. 

As best as she could, Claire lifted onto the point of her elbow and shoved at his chest until he was flat on his back, staring up at her with that goddamn smirk that drove her crazy. _If only I enjoyed smacking you_. It took time and — despite her stubborn self — help from Owen, but finally she was straddling his waist with both hands planted firmly on his chest. It’d felt like ages since they’d been so close, close enough to smell the thick mint coming from his shampoo, one she’d recognized as he walked down the hall of the hospital when he came to visit her. That also seemed like it’d been years in the past. 

Owen didn’t push her to move faster, he simply cupped his hands around her waist and ever so slowly slid both thumbs beneath the soft material gathered at the elastic band of her shorts. His gaze never left hers even as he caressed her waist, drawing incoherent shapes against her skin. Never once had he wanted to pressure her into _anything_ , not sex, not even kissing, but he felt the urge to _show_ her what she meant to him, rather than open his mouth and risk losing her _again_. 

It felt like a century later before she leaned down, pressing her chest against his, leaving her lips to touch his chin. “I’m looking for happiness in the same place I lost it.” Her voice was a whisper that barely traveled the small distance between them, but Owen still felt the pang of guilt deep in his gut. _He_ had done this to her, caused her such immense pain, and when all he wanted to do was take the pain away, he couldn’t get close enough to do it. 

Gently, he leaned forward off the bed and wrapped an arm around her waist, smiling at her before he rolled to the side, bringing her off his lap to having her back pressed against the bed. Maybe it was the tone of her voice, or the way that she hadn’t pushed his hand away when he slid it underneath her shirt to the small of her back, but something was different. His eyes begged permission to bury himself deep into her soul, and his lips moved against her neck as he spoke the same words, only to brighten into a smile when she said one simple, yet terrifying word. It was the trust she instilled in him that pushed him to carry on, tugging at the bottom hem of her shirt until he could pull it over her head, discarding it to the bottom of the bed. Or maybe it fell to the floor, but he was hardly bothered with its placement. 

There were few times in his life he could say that sensuality, what he _felt_ with another, matched what his mind was telling him and being so close to her made him feel ashamed for thinking of anyone but Claire. He found the power to bring himself back to the present and dipped his chin to press a chaste kiss against her sternum. “I’ll do everything in my power to help you find it.” 

It felt as if his words changed something within in her which left Claire buzzed from the excitement, and before she could fully comprehend what was happening she lifted both hands to his chest and shook her head. “It’s different,” she groaned. “If we would’ve had sex that first night, if the shooting would’ve never happened, I wouldn’t be stopping you right now. Sure, I’m just as much a virgin now as I was then, but now I have noodles for legs and —” Her voice broke as she merely whispered the last words and caught her bottom lip between her teeth before she silently begged herself not to cry. _Now_ was not the time for tears. 

“Hey,” he gathered her face in the palm of his hand and smoothed his thumb across her jawline. It was times like these that Owen had found out more about Claire in mere minutes than he could in a lifetime. It was her strength, coated in dignity, that he loved the most. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.” 

It was hardly a second after he spoke his request that Claire was bluntly laughing, a few tears slipping from her cheeks. “Well, first, we’re about to have sex in _Barry’s_ apartment—”

“Barry won’t mind, he’s done the same at my old place.” 

Claire shot him a pointed glare before carrying on while she tried her best to not flinch at _old place._ “And, not to mention that I have a spinal cord injury so I don’t even know if I’m going to be able to feel anything. And, is it going to be enjoyable for you?” Regardless of the thousands of thoughts that were taking over every inch of space in her brain, these were the two that made it to the surface to represent the rest. 

Owen tried his best to not deflate at the latter part of her _fears;_ she was worried if he was going to enjoy himself, and that wasn’t exactly a fear he could take away or amend, no matter how hard he tried. “Will you let me promise you something, before we even try for anything?” He hardly waited for a response before he dipped his lips to kiss across the front of her lime green sports bra, suddenly wishing she’d decided to sleep in less clothes, but at the reminder that she was staying with Barry, rescinded that thought. 

Claire growled quietly and arched from the bed, clenching her teeth together as he gently bit over her nipple. “Promise away.” 

“Being with you is going to be more momentous than merely the act of having sex with you. So, even if it doesn’t get to that point, being with you is enough for me.” 

[…]

“So, I have to ask, because I’m that nosy younger sister who is too damn stubborn to ask her brother, but is that really what happened? You two had blissful sex, he took your virginity, saw me off to my graduation the next day, and then he left for who knows how long?” Elise pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers as she rested her chin in the palm of her other hand, propped up against the dining room table inside her house. 

It’d been four months, out of six total, since Claire had last seen Owen — in person, at least. It went without saying that being stuck in Chicago while he was a thousand miles (seven-hundred and twenty seven to be exact) away wasn’t exactly how Claire had expected the _honeymoon period_ of their relationship to play out. 

Either that, or the honeymoon phase everyone spoke of was just another mythological lie created to drive people insane. It had certainly worked on her. 

Claire scoffed and rolled her eyes before she pushed back from the table and began rolling her wheelchair into the living room. “First, let’s not use any phrase that includes your brother _‘taking my’_ virginity, because I willingly gave it to him,” she smirked at Elise’s expression of disgust, “and second, you know just as well as I do that he won’t be gone forever. Plus, the plan doesn’t just stop there…” 

It wasn’t perfect, nor had they ever gone into a relationship with the misconceived perception that it would be, but there were days where Claire could hardly stand the thought of waiting two more grueling months until she’d be with him. 

The nights were the worst. Despite the sleeping aids and gimmicks the psychologist (at Karen’s request, might she add) had suggested she try, but nothing seemed to help. Like clockwork, Claire would wake up every night at the exact time she woke out of surgery, and it never failed that on the worst nights she was groggy, as if she were actually coming out of anesthesia. Guilt always seemed to settled deep in the pit of her stomach the following morning once she realized she’d called Owen, and fell back asleep on the phone at some point. 

Somehow, though, she was still kept on track. Whether or not that was at Elise and Barry’s doing — she tried to not overthink it — Claire had been in the works of getting the bakery up and running again, but this time, it wouldn’t be tucked away in the corner shop in downtown Chicago, or anywhere in the lonely state of Illinois. Seven hundred and one miles away (because D.C. just so happens to be closer than Quantico, Virginia) would be the place she would settle down with the man who had, officially, stolen her heart.

They’d long decided after his short trip home for Elise’s graduation that they’d try to work through the neglected emotions that rose from him leaving. Granted, they had talked about it after having sex for the first time, minds clouded with post-orgasmic bliss, but they had a plan. Or, somewhat of a plan.

After plenty of shared cups of coffee and the promise that she wouldn’t hide out in her apartment for longer than a few days without reaching out to Elise, Claire was off to her apartment, and in for another night of curling up on the couch, watching a movie, and drifting off to sleep with the hopes of not waking up mid-panic. 

[…]

Owen stood at the threshold to the empty apartment with the silver key clutched tightly in his grasp, hesitant to turn and shut the door when he knew it would be the last time he’d ever see it again. There weren’t _memories_ per se — unless the nights where he and Barry drank beer and binge-watched _The Blacklist_ while Claire sat beside him, asking questions every three minutes counted — but he would miss the place, nonetheless. Or maybe it was the city he would miss visiting even more. 

Six months before, the morning after he’d asked Claire to move to Washington, D.C. with him, Owen packed up what was left of his Chicago life and made the official move to D.C. He had the academy to run back to after Claire had said no to his idea of moving with him and, while he _wanted_ to wait for the woman to come around to the idea, he knew she wasn’t going to jump at it over night. Instead, after countless gentle kisses and promises that he would call _every_ night and visit when he could, Owen returned to his life as a trainee.

The first two months that he was granted no leave off the base were the most difficult. He could only bear to listen to her sobs on the phone after waking up in the middle of the night from a nightmare for so long before it started to eat away at him, turning him into the guy who was becoming sleep deprived, but it never once effected his performance. Somehow, someway, he had to be with her. On the weekends when the entire training class was allowed to be off-campus, Owen booked himself a ticket home and spent as much time with Claire as he could possibly could. From there, it all seemed to fall into place. They had never thoroughly discussed a _relationship_ or what it meant to either of them, but they found themselves easily slipping into the roles even from hundreds of miles away. 

“Owen?” Her soft voice pulled him from the reverie he’d fallen into and, before he knew it, she was sitting in the wheelchair beside him with an arm wrapped around his waist, the _walking cane_ sitting across her lap. “The movers just left, do you think we should get on the road?” 

“No, no, no, you are _not_ leaving without saying goodbye.” Elise growled as she stepped up behind her brother and shoved his shoulder, “did you think you would get away with it? Leaving without saying goodbye to your favorite sister?” Her soft ivory features fell along with the curl of her lips as she leaned against his side, his tall frame towering over all five feet, four inches of her. 

She’d once thought that if she ignored the impending day it would simply vanish along with the idea that her brother was moving across the country to follow his dreams, and along side him was the woman who was carved from his side. It may have initially happened overnight, but Elise saw the look in his eyes when he caught sight of Claire; she was the only person who put the light in his eyes and, as much of a cliché as they were, Claire was his better half. 

“We have more pressing issues though.” Elise glanced from Claire to Owen and back before her eyes caught the golden lab’s attention. She still remembered the day Claire called, begging for help with taking care of a _puppy_ , complete with the sounds of a distressed animal in the background.  In her defense, Claire had never grown up with an animal, mainly because Karen was allergic. Something she just so happened to ‘grow out of’ when she moved out of the house. 

“Are you sure Echo is going to be survive the long drive? You know, I’d be more than happy to keep her here. She can keep Morgan company while I’m at work…it’s a much better fit for a puppy than living in Washington, D.C.”

Owen chuckled and lifted an arm, tucking her to his side until he was able to lean over and press a soft kiss to her hair. “The fact that you would assume such a horrendous idea makes me lose a bit of trust in you, dork.” He caught sight of the way his sister was staring at Claire as she mindlessly tucked a piece of hair back into her side-braid, and he couldn’t help but smile, too. There was no way in hell he deserved this woman, and yet, she was agreeing to uproot her life and move with him for the sake of being _together_. 

“You better call me at least once a week,” she began, wrapping both arms around herself, “and I expect Facebook updates of the places you two are going to travel. And, I swear to God, if you _ever_ go undercover and leave Claire by herself, I will personally track you down and kill you. Understood?” 

Before he could let his sister get another round of verbal punches in, Owen leaned down and wrapped his arms around her tiny waist and pulled her close, resting his head on her shoulder. For years he had drawn so much of his strength from having her around, especially when he returned home from the navy and struggled to adapt to _civilian life_ , even as he applied for the Chicago PD. Now that they’d be separated, he knew they would both need to take time to acclimate to being apart. “I promise,” he breathed and kissed the crown of her head with a smile. 

Just as they headed down to the carport to leave, Barry showed up for the final goodbyes and gave his own round of threats to Owen, most which included hurting his ‘little sister’ and what lengths he would go to in insuring that the rest of his life would be a miserable, hellish ride. Laughter and tears were shared amongst the four as they accompanied Claire and Owen to his truck and, after he got in one last hug with his sister and Barry was allowed to kiss Claire on the cheek, Owen stood back as Claire worked to pull herself up into the truck (because getting a step-stool was too much work). Shutting the door with ease, he shot one last wink at his sister and rounded to the driver’s side before pulling the door shut to casually glance over at Claire. 

She was radiantly beautiful, each patch of her skin that he had memorized so well over the months they had been together held a memory he wasn’t yet willing to part with. The first night they’d met was one of a terrifying whirlwind, one that had left both physical and psychological scars, but it was a wonder what six months had done. While Claire had graduated from the wheelchair and was now able to use a cane, there were still days where her legs refused to work. Still, he couldn’t help but to admire her strength and, if there was one thing that he looked forward to in the future, it was the honor of laying with her and figuring her out, piece by piece, and uncovering other places her strength lived. There would be no time restraints and no thoughts of missing a flight. Gingerly, he reached across for her hand and stroked his thumb across the back of her knuckles, his gaze meeting hers as she rested her head back against the seat. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” 

Claire hadn’t needed to speak before he was shaking his head and apologized for questioning her sanity _again_. They’d spoken about the different aspects of their move for _weeks_ and had intricately planned how they would find the time to venture back to Chicago at various times of the year; they wouldn’t be able to miss spending Christmas with Elise and Barry, and Claire wanted to be able to fly to see Karen at least once a year, if not twice. But, at the heart of it, the move was about their relationship and finding a new start; a happy start. 

While Owen had his position at the FBI headquarters to look forward to, Claire had the pending opening of her new bakery, _Claire’s Café,_ that was in the heart of Georgetown. The finishing touches still had yet to be made, which meant everything needed to be completed, but it was all in due time. Plus, Owen had promised to help and she had yet to cash in on that promise.

With Echo on her lap, yapping happily, Claire scratched behind the puppy’s ears before she gave a soft nod. “I’ve never been more ready for something so life-altering in my entire life, so yes, I am ready. Just start driving already, would you?” 

[…]

When Owen’s birthday fell on the six-month anniversary of moving to D.C., it just so happened to be the perfect excuse for Claire to spoil him with her world-famous pancakes. She’d promised him, for nearly a year, that she would one day wow him with their taste, and now that it was within weeks of the one-year anniversary of their first date, she figured it was about time. 

Minus the slight issue Owen had with eating in bed. Unlike any other guy she had met before — including Barry — Owen _despised_ the idea of eating in bed. Maybe it was the crumbs that would inevitably end up on the sheets, and later would scratch against his skin when he got into bed later that same day. So, a month before, when she suggested camping out on a Saturday evening with a box of pizza, Netflix, and the warmth of their bed, Claire was astounded to find out that he would not join, unless they’d be on the couch.

Claire soundlessly inched to the side of the bed and grabbed for her cane, all while she said a silent prayer that her legs would not fail her and she would _not_ end up face-planted on the bedroom floor. Over the course of six months, she’d been put through the ringer, including a stint of nerve-pain that landed her right back in the wheel chair she thought she’d finally graduated from. Sure, they kept it tucked away in a hallway closet — out of sight, out of mind — incase it was needed on a rainy day, but for the most part, Claire never wanted to be subjected to using it again. 

From the moment they moved in, Owen had focused and hammered on making the kitchen accessible for Claire, right down to bringing in a contractor that cut portions of the counter down to give a small bench that she could sit on — if needed. In the beginning, Claire was appalled at the idea of having a _‘handi-capable_ ’ kitchen. Coming home from her first day inside the café, only to find her boyfriend neatly arranging _her_ baking supplies on the countertop sent her into a furious rage…one that started with tears. It was the simple fact that everything she’d worked for in physical therapy, right down to _training_ herself to work up the stamina to stand on her feet for a solid hour without needing to rest, had suddenly been put to shame. 

Being in the kitchen was one of the only places Claire felt truly at home. Here, she could easily let herself slip away into another world, one that wasn’t plagued with fears of the past, or the hope of a future. Unable to stop herself from drifting into another world, she hadn’t heard him creep into the kitchen, and when his fingers gripped her elbow and pulled her back against his chest, Claire shrieked and haphazardly grabbed for the nearest _weapon_ and began whacking him in the thigh. 

“Claire, stop!” He split away from her and staggered backwards, holding both hands up in defense in the case something came flying at his head. But the corners of his lips merely quirked when he glanced down at the rubber spatula held tightly in her wrapped fist, and was unable to stop the rumbling laughter that escaped. “A _spatula_? Your chose a _spatula_ to hit me with, when there are knives at your disposal?” 

Claire seethed with faux-anger as she was forced to watch him mock her disability to choose a proper weapon. With both arms crossed over her chest, leaning back against the counter, she began tapping her toes against the wooden floor. “I’m waiting for you to adapt into the thirty-two year old I went to bed with last night, and not the _three_ year old standing in front of me.” While she desperately tried to keep the lingering smile at bay, she could hardly help it when he began to advance toward her and pressed her against the counter, locking her in with a hand pressed to the counter on either side of her waist. 

“Just for your information,” he dropped his lips to brush against the nape of her neck, “I was thirty- _one_ when we went to bed last night. So technically you haven’t slept with the thirty-two year old version of me yet.” 

Even the slightest mention of _sleeping_ with him sent her mind into an absolute frenzy. She’d never thought of herself as a prude; even her decision to remain abstinent never came from the hope of being married before having sex. Claire simply wanted to feel a bond with someone before taking the next leap of a relationship. As much as she cringed whenever Elise brought up the fact that Owen had _‘taken’_ her virginity, Claire knew that she had just as much opinion in the idea that she’d given it to him, and she would, for the rest of her life, if that’s what she felt was right. 

She sidled past the barrier he’d created and carried on with mixing the pancake batter, wracking her brain to remember if she’d already poured in the teaspoon of vanilla extract that was required to bring together the smooth texture. _Fuck_. Why did her _boyfriend_ have to be so goddamn good at distracting her at all the wrong moments? Just as she thought of him, the rosy flush crept onto the tips of her cheeks, and she had to force herself to step away from him. 

“Don’t you have to work today?” The words came out as a growl more than the playful, teasing tone she’d worked for, but when she turned to peer over her shoulder at him, Claire knew the message had gotten across. She watched as Owen slowly backed out of the kitchen, still visible all the way to their bedroom door, as he began peeling off the layers of his white t-shirt, dropping the material to the floor before pushing his hands to the waistband of his boxers. Claire squealed and turned to hide her face in both hands, only to peek out from behind parted fingers as she watched him sneak around the corner, his stark-white ass disappearing before she could look away. 

“Right, concentrate Claire.” Huffing a breathy sigh, she stood with her feet planted in place for a second longer, looking at the place where Owen had disappeared from, and wondering how the hell she’d gotten to this place. 

Time disappeared in the form of alternating between baking the most perfectly plump pancakes on the stove and setting the small kitchen table, wanting to have a perfect sit-down breakfast before he’d have to race of to work and, eventually, Claire would drag herself to get dressed and head into the café. Maybe _that_ was the sole reason behind hiring an assistant manager; so she could sleep in most mornings and have that extra bit of time to spend with Owen. 

By the time he sauntered out of their bedroom and into the kitchen nook, he could barely contain the smile that broke his features. Here he was, dreading having to work on his _birthday_ , while his selfless girlfriend had devoted her morning to cooking him a breakfast worth remembering. And, that thought, put it into perspective for him.

“Are you going to tell me what you made?” Leaning back in the chair to peer into the kitchen, it was only moments later as she slowly carried a large platter into the nook that he was met with an aroma that had him salivating at first smell. 

 _Pancakes_.

Owen didn’t even need to ask her to confirm that she had in fact cooked a homemade recipe, one she claimed took her years to perfect. In the beginning, when she started making them for the bakery in Chicago, they were too thick. Then, as she had explained over the phone one morning as he was getting dressed while in Quantico, she was getting requests to make _thinner_ pancakes, almost as a crepe, but not to alter the taste. All this while promising that, one day, she would make them for him. 

And now was his chance. 

“Before you taste these, just know that I have warned you ahead of time that you will absolutely, one hundred percent, fall head over heels in love with these pancakes. And, I’ve already warned your mother that you’ll ask for _my_ pancakes when you’re home visiting them.” Soft laughter filled the space between them as Claire stood by the entry, watching as he flopped one, two, _three_ pancakes onto his plate. So much for being worried that he wouldn't like them. 

Granted, those were _her_ thoughts, never his. 

There are two types of people in this world: those who drown and suffocate their pancakes in sugary sweet syrup, and those who took the conservative approach and placed approximately three, pencil-point sized drops of syrup on each pancake. As she continued to linger, unable to sit down due to the nerves bundle deep in her gut, Claire shifted from one foot to the other as he reached for the syrup bottle. 

“Wait,” she reached out for his hand and wrapped her small grip around his much thicker wrist, “aren’t you going to test them before you smother the entire plate?” A small smile hesitated to part her lips, and when he lifted her hand to his lips, Claire let out the sigh she was unaware she’d been holding.

It wasn’t much longer before he cut the round cakes into even squares and stabbed a handful of pieces onto the spears of his fork before shoveling them into his mouth. His tastebuds went erratic, which only showed on his features, as he tasted quite possibly the best thing Claire had ever baked for him. His head began to bob, much like a horse would when eating, and gave Claire a half-assed smile to assure her that the pancakes were a definite success. 

“Oh, Jesus,” he mumbled after taking in another mouthful of pancake, and motioned her closer. After he pushed himself back from the table, Owen patted his lap and reached out to wrap an arm around her waist, drawing her closer until she was sitting on his legs. 

The next moments happened in a slow-motion sequence, but not one she had time to think of a proper response. Owen reached up to cup her jaw in the palm of his hand, trailing his thumb along her bottom lip as he eyed her, and Claire found herself wondering if he was debating on what to devour next; three more pancakes, or her lips? 

“I love pancakes, but only _your_ pancakes, and I’ll never eat another pancake without thinking of how my pancake-virginity was swept away from me.” 

She tuned out when he uttered those _three words_ , but Claire had turned it into something else in her mind. Sure, he’d said it before, plenty of times. _‘I love it when you wear your hair pulled back so I can see the rose hue on your cheeks when I kiss you too long,’_ or _‘I love how you look first thing in the morning, when I’m not sure where your hair ends, because its in a massive knot.’_ Instead, she leaned down to kiss him, tasting the maple flavor on the tip of her tongue before it was smothered on her lips. 

“I love you,” she breathed the words for the very first time before she pulled back slowly, keeping her forehead pressed firmly against his. “And something tells me I’m going to love you forever.” 

[…]

“So, you’re telling me that _Sanskrit_ , which is a language that is hardly heard of any longer, has 96 ways that I can tell you I love you, but by simply saying _‘Claire, I love you,’_ in English, it isn’t open to more interpretations?” Well, that was a load of bullshit that he certainly didn’t believe in.

From her place on the couch, Claire leveled her legs in order to place her laptop on the coffee table, only to hear the quiet growling of their puppy, warning Claire that she was encroaching on her space. Yanking one earbud out while successfully pausing the audiobook, she peeked over her shoulder towards him, her eyebrows furrowing into a tight line; this story would have to wait. Of course he would think such — not that she would ever doubt his _love_ , but since they’d been together in D.C. for a year, simply existing in the space they’d created for each other, a day hadn’t gone by that Owen told her of his love. And _now_ , he seemed wary of those exact words. 

“What exactly is this all about?” Clasping her hands between both knees, she couldn’t bring herself to stare directly at him, so she picked a spot on the wall beside his head. It was easy enough to appear as if she were staring straight into his green orbs instead of the ivory wall.

Would this be the moment he gave up on the bittersweet life they’d created together? Was he going to tell her it wasn’t working out when, in her eyes, it couldn’t be better? Sure, they had their fair share of arguments, but what couple didn’t? By no means would Claire ever be perfect and now, with her injury, it seemed like _perfection_ was out of reach. 

Owen cleared his throat once as his Adam’s apple bobbed with the emotion that welled in his throat. He’d searched for _weeks_ for the perfect time to do this, and it never seemed like he had the right timing. The first when she’d finished a therapy appointment and limped through the exit towards his truck, a deep-set scowl etched into her features. That day, Owen had simply shoved the tiny velvet box down into his pocket and reminded himself to be patient; another opportunity would arise. 

On the second occasion, when they were celebrating the New Year with some friends at her bakery, the night hadn’t exactly gone as planned when Owen came down with food poisoning and had thrown up on the drive home. The allure of romance had been thrown in the trash — literally. 

Tonight, though, as the deep orange fire crackled in the fireplace and the love of his life looked far more comfortable than he, snuggled in the warmth of blankets on the couch, Owen finally knew _tonight_ was it. “This,” he laughed shortly, shaking his head, “ _tonight_ , to be exact, was supposed to happen many weeks ago, but it never seemed right. Something else, something I didn’t want to link _this_ with, always seemed to get in the way, and I want you to remember this and think back on it when you’re old and gray and still _so_ beautiful—” He was cut short as Claire leaned forward and gently cupped his chin, grazing her thumb across the short layer of stubble that covered his jawline. Since the day they’d met, she’d _always_ expressed her like for his beard, and often told him there was _nothing_ sexier than when the short stubbled rubbed against her skin. 

Well, she _used_ to think there was nothing sexier. 

“Claire, I want you to be my future. When I wake up, hell, I want to see you draped in nothing but the sheet, and I want to have a family with you.” Reaching into his pocket, soon to produce a black box, Owen held it out to her and popped it open from the side with his thumb. “Claire Elizabeth Dearing,” his smile filled his face, “will you please marry me?”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire Dearing doesn’t do blind dates, but when her best friend begs her to meet a guy that he personally knows and starts to tell her anecdotes of the one and only Owen Grady, Claire soon finds herself giving in and agrees to go out with him.
> 
> What happens next is a hurricane of tragedy, their lives twisted into a mangled mess, but with determination to come out on top, will the space nudged between them manage to rip them apart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't have much to say about the second part of this story that stole my heart away except for the fact that I'm only posting it so that I can finally close it from the screen on my laptop. It's literally haunting me.
> 
> I poured my soul into these words, so I hope you all can appreciate it like I did.

"Claire, Owen, I'm advising that you steer away from a natural pregnancy.” Doctor Johnson, an older woman who appeared to be in her mid-fifties with dark brunette hair and gray, frosted roots, stared down at her intwined hands before her gaze found the couple before her. "I've reviewed your extensive medical file, spoke to your doctors back in Chicago, and after speaking with the two of you today, I think you should explore other options while you're young." Reaching to the table beside her, she grabbed a handful of brochures, at least ten in the small pile, and fanned them out as if she were asking the couple to "pick a card, any card”.

The burning knot in her throat felt as if it were trying to suffocate her, giving her an easy out of this terrible conversation. It wasn’t a crime to check out, to let her physical body remain sitting across from the ignoramus while she drifted to a mental safe-place. It was only when she felt Owen gripping her knee when she directed her glare from the floor to meet his gaze and her features softened at the concern shining in his eyes. 

“Please, don’t cry,” he whispered and reached up to brush the teardrops from her cheek, swiping at the blush that had marked her features. It was an arrow through his heart to hear that they wouldn’t have natural children. “We can talk about our options when we’re ready. This isn’t an end-all to having children.” 

Dr. Johnson cleared her throat before she scooted forward on the rolling stool, clasping a hand over Claire’s bare knee. Either she ignored the way Claire grimaced and twitched beneath her touch — much like the way she flinched when her feet were in the stirrups — or she was sorely unaware of personal space. 

“Claire, I know this must be hard to take in all at once, so why don’t you take the brochures so you can call me when the two of you have decided on further options. Surrogacy with your own eggs is an option, and if that’s the choice you make, we can get started on harvesting your eggs.” 

_Oh, so now I’m a goddamn chicken?_

Dr. Johnson nudged the pamphlets into Owen’s hand and moved to sit behind her desk before pulling a pen from her white coat as she began to scribble inside Claire’s designated chart. “But I want to make myself clear. There are risks involved if you were to get pregnant, and I will be wary to continue treating you. We aren’t just talking about bedrest. There’s a chance that the pressure will impact your spine, and it could very well land you back in your wheelchair. Permanently.” A few more scribbles were made before she looked up, a happy-go-lucky grin plastered to her face, as if she’d just given them the best news of their life. “So, you can make your next appointment with the front desk, but I’ll make a note in here that I gave the appropriate reading material for you to go over together, and I’ll see you back in say, a month?”

 _I’m sure you’ll be hearing from us sooner._  

Claire didn’t expect him to decipher the words she couldn’t speak through the fears the were taking a choke-hold around her neck, crushing her vocal chords, nor did she expect Owen to put two and two together, especially when it had taken coming to the gynecologist to make it known in her own mind. Since the accident, her cycles had become irregular from several different factors, including a change in diet and the nerve-medications that were added into a daily regimen. When her period was three weeks late and counting, she hardly thought anything of it. _It’ll come back eventually, it always does._ She’d convinced herself plenty of times before, and this time was no different.

Or so she had thought. 

It had started with an increase in backaches, one that an over-the-counter pain medication couldn’t even touch, and furthered into moderate cramping. When the aching started, Claire begrudgingly dug the wheelchair out of hiding and was forced to begin using it more often, especially when the fatigue would hit halfway through the day. From the increased use, she assumed the cramping could be from the sudden lack of daily exercise, and pushed the thoughts of additional nerve damage to the back of her mind. 

“Just for curiosity’s sake, have you taken a pregnancy test?” Elise asked her one morning over the phone, tapping her nails against the side of her coffee cup as she read between the lines of absolute silence. “Claire?” 

“Please don’t tell Owen.” 

Suddenly, Elise found herself smack in the middle of a silent, raging war, and she felt absolutely helpless. On one hand, Claire was withholding the information from her _brother_ , and Elise couldn’t imagine how heartbroken he would be if he found out she knew before he did. Then, the side of her heart that sided with Claire, the piece that knew the jumps and leaps the two would have to go through, knew that Claire was keeping this from him for a reason. 

Was it a _good_ reason? That was yet to be determined.

Once they’d gone through the motions of getting home and settled inside their mid-city townhouse, Claire put as much distance as she could between herself and Owen, ignoring the brochures that sat on the counter as she walked into their bedroom, soon collapsing on the bed. For the first time since the pregnancy was confirmed — by _seven_ pregnancy tests — Claire felt an unspeakable heaviness in her chest, that drifted to her stomach, before leaving her to feel hollowed out. _Maybe I’m not pregnant, maybe it’s a cruel joke._

Before long, she heard his soft footsteps echoing throughout the opposite side of their house, and Echo’s quiet whimpers, imagining in her mind the puppy’s tail wagging as she saw Owen approaching. It wasn’t another five minutes until she heard the back door close, her fiancé sighed, and the shuffling footsteps grew closer to their bedroom. 

“So, I was thinking —”

Claire had already began chuckling before he could get another word in, resting her hand flat on her stomach as she stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the tension to dissipate before she encouraged him to continue. 

“What if we skip any talk of a natural pregnancy, and we ask Elise?” Owen took a seat on the edge of the bed and instinctively reached over to run his fingers through her fiery locks, unable to keep his hands away. It was always the dilemma; where was he to touch first? Honestly, he wanted to kiss her until an answer to their problems magically appeared without any further heartache, but the chances of it happening were slim to none. 

Initially, the news that he wouldn’t have the joy of being a _biological_ father to their future child — children, if they were able — was heart-wrenching. It’d always been a dream of his, which most men wouldn’t admit to, but he had no qualms of saying he wanted to be a father. He wanted the experience of waking up every two hours during the night to help with feeding, or to urge Claire to sleep longer and he would get up with the infant who just wanted to attention and love…and the occasional bottle feeding. 

And, as ashamed as he was to even think it, there was a split second of time between hearing the news of Claire being warned of a natural pregnancy that made him take into question what they were working for; if they couldn’t have children, what would their future be like? 

Claire sighed quietly as her eyes drifted closed. Was it too much to ask that she be given time to process the prognosis she — _they_ — were given? “Can we skip this talk today and wait until tomorrow? Or next week? I don’t want to talk about how Elise —” _Elise._  

Without even questioning Owen, Claire knew the direction his thoughts were taking him. Elise would hands-down do anything for her older brother, and by default — and by being friends — knew that extended to herself, as well. “We’re not going to ask your sister to be a surrogate mother for us, Owen. That’s not something I’m going to ask her to do. Your sister has a life, too, and I know Morgan and her have talked about starting a family of their own, and I don’t want to intrude on the decision they’ll be making.”

He desperately wanted to keep his cool and to simply discuss their options, but Owen could already feel his defensive streak rising as he gritted his teeth together and shook his head. “You heard Dr. Johnson, we have to talk about our other options, there is no way a natural pregnancy is in the cards, now.” 

There was nothing traditional about either of their families. When Elise had come out as bisexual during her senior year of high school after ‘secretly’ dating her best friend for a year, Owen was ecstatic for the cat to finally be out of the bag; he’d only known after she spilled the beans to him during a short stint home during his time in the military, claiming she already knew she loved the other girl. When she met Morgan during their senior year in college, Owen remembered holding his breathe the day Elise had told him she was going to be introduced to her girlfriend’s family and could only hope that they understood as well as her family had. Thankfully, the Finnerty’s had acted as if they were told the sky was blue, or the grass on the other side was indeed _not_ green, it was merely fake. 

As for Claire, being raised in a single parent household didn’t leave room for ‘traditional’ to be spoken of, and she knew her mother would be proud to accept Owen into their family, and to thus start making plans for a future, whether they were married or not. Plus, weren’t those just signatures on a sheet of paper? What made a marriage _real_ , and why was it being defined by an authorized seal from a state? 

Claire found it difficult to flip over onto her stomach after the stressful — not to mention _painful_ — morning she’d had, but the moment she pushed herself to sit near the headrest of the bed, her eyes shot like daggers through Owen’s thick skin. “Are you honestly going to go with the opinion of _one_ doctor, not to mention the _first_ doctor we’ve consulted?” A ragged sigh parted her lips and she glanced down at her legs, straight as pins in front of her on the mattress. “What would’ve happened had I listened to the first doctor who told me I’d never walk again?” Granted, there were days where she felt like _one more step_ would end up putting her in a hospital bed again, but Claire had never wanted to settle for the bare-minimum. 

“Jesus, Claire, we aren’t talking about your _legs_. We’re talking about your life, and our future child’s life. This isn’t something we can just fuck around with, pardon the pun.” Whilst he seemed to be heated over the debate, she couldn’t help but catch the smirk settled on the edges of his lips, and it didn’t take Claire long to realize why. 

“I’m sorry, but I’m not willing to just give up the dream of having a biological child, Owen. Wouldn’t you rather fight for this than to give up, to roll over and expose our weak spots? To say ‘game over’?” She tugged a hand through her fiery waves and, when she peered up to see the scowl turning his expression sour, he sighed. 

“No, what I want is for you to explain to me why you’re so set on carrying a child when you know it’s going to kill you.” From zero to sixty, Owen stood hastily from the bed and began pacing at the foot of the bed, shoving both hands deep into the pockets of his denim jeans. “Just, come on, Claire. Use your brain. It’s just a child, and does it matter how they’re brought into this world? I mean, for fuck’s sake, what’s the difference if you’re carrying the child or my sister is?” 

She scoffed, a sound that sounded like a combination of a cry for help and her lungs deflating, giving up. “The difference is that _I_ want to carry our child. I want to give birth, and I want that experience. I don’t want that chance to slip through my fingers.” 

Owen turned towards her and Claire could’ve sworn she saw an angry red flash in his eyes. He clenched both hands into fists at his sides, the skin pulled taunt over his knuckles crackling into a pale white. “Yeah, well guess what? I don’t want to watch _you_ slip through my fingers when something happens to you, or to our child. What kind of life would that be? To have our child here on this earth while you’re ten feet under? The baby would still be _ours_ , but Elise could carry the baby to full term without risking her _life_ , like you would be.” 

“Well, you don’t get to back out now, Owen. You don’t get to make that goddamn choice because I’m already pregnant. So congratulations, you’re going to be a father.” 

The air inside their bedroom stilled and became so thin Claire found herself struggling to catch her breath and began wheezing, coughing through the sobs that were threatening to tear her beating heart straight from her chest. Claire couldn’t bring herself to look at him, not when the rage streaming through her veins turned into complete and utter guilt. 

It wouldn’t have mattered, though, because the next time Claire looked up from the spot on the mattress that had a loose thread, one she had spent the last twenty minutes picking at, Owen was gone. 

[…]

When she stuttered awake in the early hours of the morning — three, she noticed, as she turned towards the bedside table — it took a few moments for Claire to realize that she was shaking, and had broken out in a cold sweat at some point during the night. She convinced herself to lay in bed for a few minutes before she would get up for a warm glass of milk, a liking she’d developed throughout the early weeks of the third trimester of her pregnancy. 

She didn’t make it another three minutes before the cramps cut through her stomach, forcing Claire to fold both arms over her stomach in a poor attempt to clutch the pain away. She was warned about these — Braxton Hicks contractions — and her obstetrician, Doctor Cantor, had assured her that they were nothing to be concerned about. Most women, at some point in their pregnancy, would experience them. Instead of panicking, she reviewed the ways to control the ‘false labor’ contractions, starting as she scooted towards the edge to shuffle to the bathroom.

Even with the bathroom being only a handful of steps across the bedroom, Claire walked with a hand sliding against the wall each step of the way, guiding her to the door. To be considerate of Owen, she slid into the bathroom and closed the door before flicking the light switch (after much trouble with _finding_ the goddamn switch in the dark). 

Nothing could have prepared her for what Claire saw when she stared into the mirror. Not only was her skin pale, taking on a ghostly hue, but when her gaze flicked to her thighs, she sharply inhaled an inaudible gasp. Not only were her thighs soaked, but after she blinked a few times, Claire realized she wasn’t just wet, but there was a pinkish hue to her usual light-grey pajama shorts.

“I’m not going to panic, I’m not going to panic.” The words were static as she stared herself down, shaking her head nonetheless. If she panicked, it would only cause more distress. _But there is blood._ It was a constant battle between her brain and her gut, but neither one would win. However, when the next gut-wrenching pain sliced through her stomach, Claire cried out, howling into the darkness, yelling for Owen. _Something is wrong._

She wanted to be calm, cool, and collected; hadn’t she proved as much nearly seven months before when she’d initially discovered she was pregnant, and later when they found out they'd be welcoming a baby boy into their family? It was no easy feat to contain her anger when Dr. Johnson had first expressed her concern for Claire wanting to take a stab at a natural pregnancy, and now? Now, while she was only halfway through the third trimester, they’d had their ‘emergency plan’ set up for weeks; but emergencies weren’t going to wait. Emergencies were just that; unexpected, un _explained_ , and certainly unwilling to consider lives in the matter.

“Owen?” Claire cried out, grasping the frame of the bathroom door as she stood on the rug, feeling the warm liquid on the inside of her thighs. “Owen,” she groaned, trying to startle him out of sleep, but it wasn’t exactly the perfect opportunity for him to continue sleeping while she was slipping into the first stage of labor. Or was it pre-labor? When she muttered his name for the third and final time, she couldn’t help but to roll her eyes as she heard him sit up in a rush, and could only imagine him dragging a hand across his face as to clear the sleep from his eyes. 

“I think,” she swallowed thickly as the fear of the unknown crept into her mind. In all the reading she’d done, had they ever mentioned a light red hue appearing when the water broke? “I think we need to go to the hospital. I’m…I’m bleeding.” 

Speaking that one word seemed to capture his attention and it only took a few seconds before Owen was out of bed and tugging a pair of sweat pants on over his boxers. Claire could hear him shuffling around in their bedroom, cursing the darkness (when all he needed to do was turn on a goddamn light). When he appeared in the doorway holding a pair of leggings and a shirt for her, she could’ve sworn her heart melted the tiniest bit. 

“Thank you,” she breathed, nudging the door open to let him in. 

Owen hadn’t been shy throughout the pregnancy. While he was wary and distant in the beginning, once he was forced to pull his head out of his own ass — by none other than Elise — he soon came to realize that they could make this pregnancy work, despite the opinions from the numerous doctors they’d spoken to. In the end, they both decided that it was their future, and they had to work through it. 

Claire concentrated on her breathing, sitting on the bed as she attempted to slip her feet into a pair of sandals all the while Owen ran around their bedroom like a chicken with its head severed. Honestly, it was humorous, and she laughed a few times until another pain cramped in her side. The more it happened, the sooner the pains were coming and they were worsening. 

Only minutes passed before Owen returned to her, pushing the wheelchair into the room, and smiled down at her. “Hop in, baby, let’s go meet our boy, yeah?” 

Despite the lingering doubt in the pit of her stomach, Claire lifted her chin, pushed forward the most of a smile that she could muster, and nodded towards the torture device. “I’m only pregnant, I can still walk.” Claire reached out and pushed at the arm of the wheelchair, watching as it rolled away from the bed before she stood and stepped to the foot of the bed, glancing over her shoulder. “Are you coming? This baby really isn’t going to wait.” 

While it was Claire’s responsibility to keep Owen calm as he drove to the hospital, she couldn’t help but to reach for his hand about three minutes into the trip. Granted, their saving grace was the simple fact that it wasn’t a long distance, twenty at most, and that was in heavy traffic. She laced her fingers through his, smiling when he began playing with her engagement ring. 

For now, they were in an enchanted world, and she felt like nothing could hurt them. 

[…]

If someone where to tell her three months into her pregnancy that the morning sickness would be worth it in the end, Claire would’ve smiled politely, possibly laughed, and then consulted any and every pregnancy-related book they had purchased for the answers. Yet, the questions she needed answers to were ones that could never be answered in text-book form, nor could another women tell her exactly how it would be. There was no set equation for how much pain she would endure, and there wasn’t a single person who could determine how long her labor would last, right down to the very second. 

The world around them hadn’t quit spinning from the very moment they arrived at the hospital. While she had been dumped into the category of a ‘risked pregnancy’ from the very start, Claire had never been more thankful for the label. Once they were in the labor and delivery wing of the hospital and had given their name, a mass of chaos erupted. They were shuffled into a room where Claire was asked to answer a few simple questions — date of birth, last name, the last time she felt a contraction — while Owen rooted through the packed bag in search of her slippers, and a sports bra for her to be comfortable in. 

When the charge nurse left the room, promising to send another nurse in to help her be hooked up to the monitors, Owen lingered around for a few more minutes until she was situated in the bed and the second nurse appeared, before he took off in search of some caffeine, for himself, and ice chips for Claire. 

She caught the soft smile the nurse tossed her only moments after he left the room and she certainly didn’t need a recap to know why. Claire had learned after they moved to D.C. that there would _always_ be lusting stares from random passerby. 

“How long have you two been together?” Kate — a tall brunette who had to be in her young twenties — reminded her of a young version of Karen, and her smile had to be one of the only calming things about being stuck inside a hospital. 

As if on cue, the warmth spread up from her collar bones, washing every inch of skin in a deep red hue. “Well, I guess that depends on who you ask.” Soft laughter carried through the room by both women as Claire started to tell the story of how they met, through a mutual friend of course, and continued on to tell their story, thankful that Kate merely nodded her through the difficult parts, not asking a single question. Whether it was her place to ask or not, Claire was still thankful.

The course of their conversation evolved by the time Kate was setting up the fetal monitors, after hooking Claire to her own, and she couldn’t help but notice the grim furrowing of her eyebrows before she looked to her wild gaze. It was clear to _anyone_ that the young girl was panicking, albeit internally.

“Kate, is there something wrong?” Claire tried her best to sit up to get a better look at the monitors, but a strong hand met her shoulder. 

“Claire, I need you to just lay back and relax, I’m going to find Doctor Cantor, only because I —” She gulped, swallowing thickly as her gaze dropped to the tiled floor. “I need to ask what type of monitor she would like.” She didn’t give her much of a choice as she turned the corner and raced from the room, leaving Claire to her own thoughts. 

She wracked her brain to find a needle in the haystack of a thousand different explanations for Kate’s sudden disappearance, because Claire knew it was over more than just a goddamn monitor. No one needed assistance from a _doctor_ in terms of a fetal monitor. Claire squeezed her eyes closed until she saw the changing colors displayed on the back of her eyelids and she felt the pounding begin in her temples. 

“ _Baby_?” 

Owen stopped at the threshold but knew, without even questioning, that something had happened. He crossed the room without a moment to spare and discarded both cups onto the small wooden stand in the corner. Before he sat next to Claire, he reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing the crest of each knuckle. “What happened?” 

Before he could get a semblance of an answer, a loud voice — that of Dr. Cantor — could be heard approaching the room, and it wasn’t friendly. She was shouting down the hall for another set of technician’s hands and for a nurse who _“knew what they were doing”._

“Claire, Owen, lovely to see the two of you again. I heard you were here and I would feel guilty if I didn’t come say hello in a timely fashion.” Without wasting time, she made her way to the computer monitor beside the bed and pestered with the keys for a moment, all the while her mouth determined to wrinkle into a straight line. 

“Everyone else out of the room,” she motioned to the charge nurse who had wandered in and was standing in the corner, and the technician stepped out, closing the door behind him. 

“I’m not quite sure how to tell you this,” she started, turning towards the couple, never once taking her eyes away from Claire, “but we aren’t detecting a heartbeat.” 

[…] 

Considering it was early in the start of the morning, the sun hardly reaching its peak in the sky, Elise knew something was wrong the moment she saw her brother’s face show up on her phone screen. Whether it was sibling telepathy — which was still unproven and a theory as big as Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster — or just the uneasy clenching in the gut of her stomach, Elise pressed the phone to her hear, muttered a quiet _hello_ (in hopes that she wouldn’t wake her husband) and tiptoed from their bedroom, but was merely met with loud, heart-wrenching sobs. 

“We lost the baby, Elise.” He cried for his fiancée, who had fought to prove to the rest of their world that bringing a child into this world would work out, and he cried for himself, for finally accepting they _could_ have a child of their own; and he couldn’t help but think he’d fucked up the same day Claire told him she was expecting, when he rushed out and asked the universe why this would happen to _them_ , that the universe decided _he_ didn’t deserve to be a father. 

As well as she knew her brother, there were zero words that came to mind that she could spew in order to comfort him. She’d stood by countless women during the course of their pregnancies, and had ultimately helped to care for their newborns after delivery. Yet, there came a time where she sat beside women and grieved with them over the loss of a newborn, over the idea that they would never take their little girl home or watch their son grow up to play tee-ball. But, now that it hit closer to home, Elise felt the pit in her stomach churning and the bitter taste at the back of her throat. Guiding a hand over her own stomach, wondering how she would feel if the roles were reversed, she cringed.  

“Tell me what I can do.” It was the only request she knew to make, and even Elise felt crummy asking him what needed to be done instead of coming up with a way to be proactive. 

But it was all Owen could do to preach that she had to _promise_ to not show up at their house the next morning; not only was he unsure of how long Claire would be in the hospital, but he needed to know that their house could be quiet to grieve in the fashion which would suite them the best.  

As soon as their call had started, Owen was saying goodbye so he could return to Claire. 

Hushed voices and somber moods surrounded them in the room following the news that had completely shattered their world in the course of mere seconds. Once the prognosis was spoken, those words could never be taken back. They could never be changed, or altered, and there wasn’t a single hope of beginning to mend the wounds that had been ripped deep into their hearts. 

After she had told Claire and Owen the news, Dr. Cantor had ordered for a second monitor to be brought into the room and, in a moment of hope, secured it around her waist; but there was no heartbeat. There, on the screen, was their baby boy’s outline, but no vitals. No heart-rate that could describe just how hard he was fighting his way out to meet the world, and no kick to tell of his excitement. After it was noted in the chart that a heart-beat was undetected, the doctor asked for the monitor to be taken from the room, and to have it prepared for the delivery, as well as taking the precautions for Claire’s own sake. 

Which brought them to now. 

“Hey,” Owen sat down next to her legs on the bed and reached out, squeezing her thigh that was buried beneath the white sheets. While she was receiving the Pitocin that would induce labor, Owen had taken a moment to step outside to call Elise, and now as he returned it was a different version of his fiancée that he returned to. Claire appeared to have sunken impossibly further into the bed, the thin, ivory sheet tucked beneath her chin. Her features usually held a slight pinkish hue — whether or not he was the one to put it there — but now she looked as pale as the walls that surrounded her, both literally and metaphorically. 

“The new nurse, the one replacing Kate, came in to tell me they won’t be giving me an epidural.” When she looked up from their laced fingers to his bewildered expression, Claire shook her head. “They have good reason not to. Doctor Cantor is worried about the pressure on the base of my spine, and to give an epidural would basically eliminate being able to monitor it.” 

“And the pain?” He pressed a chaste kiss to the palm of her hand and squeezed her fingers gently. While he didn’t want to bring about a reminder of the pain she was already in, but he needed to know; he _needed_ her to open and share her concerns with him, or simply to let him in on the grieving. While he didn’t know what it felt like to be in her position _physically,_ he knew the vice grip on his heart matched her own. 

Claire knew he only meant well; that her fiancé truly wanted to sit beside the bed and clutch her hand during what could be their most trying time together, but she couldn’t say the same. Right now, she wanted space, but she knew that if she were to push him away, there was a good chance they wouldn’t be able to heal together. It would play out to be a spitting image of the day she told him about the pregnancy, and how he ran out, not returning for hours. How would she fair then? How should she make it through the agony of losing a child if she couldn’t lean on him for support?

Before she could give him an answer — one that would surely lack in the assurance he was looking for her to have — Dr. Cantor returned donning a long, pale blue surgical gown and a cap on her head. It had _pacifiers_ printed on the fabric, and the mere sight made Claire want to crumble into pieces. At home, they had an entire drawer of pacifiers in the nursery, all with different images on them. Some had little mustaches, others had a bright orange football, or her favorite, the few that had baking paraphernalia imprinted on the top. They were stored in the same dresser, right below the drawer packed with diapers, neatly stacked into rows. 

“I don’t want to interrupt, but the nurses are going to begin prepping you for the delivery, if you don’t mind?” While she knew Dr. Cantor didn’t have to be nearly as kind or warm as she had been, Claire was thankful for the gentle voice she spoke with. Since they’d met with her after Dr. Johnson’s fearful prognosis, the woman had instilled the delight of being pregnant with the couple despite it shattering within the past hours. 

Owen pushed himself to stand beside the bed, but not before he leaned in and kissed her forehead, lingering for a moment before he found the self-control and pulled away. Words could not express what he was feeling, and even if he could, Owen knew he’d keep it to himself. In the end, it would only upset Claire further to know he too was having the worst time keeping himself held together.

As her doctor settled herself at the end of the bed, motioning to the nurse on either side of Claire to help lift her legs into the stirrups, she passed a solemn glance to Owen. She could still remember the day the couple walked into her office, timid and nervous of what the future held, but she knew the two wouldn’t take no for an answer; the history of the number of specialists they'd seen spoke to their dedication. And, while it never got easier to deliver the news to an expecting family, it was harder when she had involved herself in the excitement the two felt. 

“Claire.” Dr. Cantor’s voice was soft, barely audible over the pounding of the heartbeat echoing throughout her body. She didn’t want to look up, because then she would be acknowledging the fact that one of the most horrific times in her life had turned out to be real, when she’d prayed for a nightmare instead. 

“We’re going start now.” 

[…]

Everything had seemed like a terrible dream, one in which they hadn’t been forced to live. 

The moments after his birth, the nurses stole him away from the doctor’s steady hands and took his measurements, jotting down his weight of three pounds, four ounces, and his thirty-five inches in length. It gave Dr. Cantor time to cater to Claire and she gave instructions that fell on deaf ears. 

It wasn’t until the small bundle that was swaddled in a blue and white striped blanket was handed to Claire that she knew the true meaning of utter heartbreak in its purest form. 

A hush blanketed the room as the multiple nurses trickled out behind the doctor, the door shutting quietly, leaving the couple to grieve in private. Owen took a silent seat next to Claire, scooting until they were situated with her sitting in-between his legs, their son held tenderly in her arms and his arms wrapped around her. Owen’s gaze sorted over his tiny face, from the curve of his nose that he’d decided was an imprint of Claire, and the way his brows were scrunched as if he was solving the world’s problems. 

Neither wanted to speak for the fear that they would suddenly miss his heart-beat, the first of many, and the sign that they’d been involved in a massive misunderstanding. Their son wasn’t dead. He was alive, merely sleeping while protected in the warmth of their embrace. But they knew better than anyone that they wouldn’t be carrying their son home in a carseat. There would be no late-night feedings or the happiness of betting on his first words.

“He’s so tiny,” Claire’s voice was broken, and it took several deep breaths after she spoke to try and regain any normalcy of her words, had she wanted to speak past the knot lodged in her throat. Instead, she gently used her forefinger and slid it beneath his hand left hand, peering down at his tiny fingers and the intricacy of the smooth lines that separated each joint. She was desperate for him to open his eyes; she’d dreamt of their color for countless nights, but had wondered if she would instead see the stars in his eyes the first time they met. Would she be able to pick out the constellations hidden beneath the navy blue orbs, the same she’d watched for the months throughout her pregnancy? Now, she’d go an eternity without ever knowing. 

It was unknown where the exchange of hands came, and he hardly remembered asking for the time to hold him, but Owen peered down to his son, watching the curve of his lips, almost as if he were smiling. He imagined what he’d planned to do with their son upon bringing him home; was his first dream to take a nap on the couch with the newborn drawn across his chest, or he was simply going to grab his phone and snap unlimited pictures of Claire holding the blonde child. “Please,” he heard himself plead, whether to an unknown supreme being or his son, and brought his thumb to rest against his porcelain skin. He was unable to stop comparing the size of his hand to his small stature, but as she glided the padding of his finger across his cheek, he felt the small eyelashes tickle at his skin. 

“Baby,” Claire whispered, reaching over to guide her hand around to the back of his neck as her fingers gently passed over his skin. “He’s gone, baby.” Those three words continued to slip from her lips as she leaned her forehead against his arm, the tears pouring from her eyes, the sorrow burrowing a hole inside her chest, turning the ache into one that became physical, slicing through her heart. “Oh, god, our baby, he’s gone.” 

Whether it was minutes or hours later, Claire heard the door glide open and all breathing ceased to exist. Dr. Cantor reappeared with a nurse at her side, and another woman trailed in behind, a notebook clasped against her chest, an all-too-perky bun resting on the crown of her head. On any other day Claire would turn to Owen and make a snarky comment about how she baked buns that looked better than the _fake_ one resting atop her head, but today was not one of those. 

“Claire, Owen, I am so very sorry, but we’re going to have to ask you to say goodbye to your son now—“ 

“Henry,” Claire interrupted, glancing up at the three woman standing before them. They’d come to take their son, _her son_ , but he would not be willing handed over, not until he was given a proper name. 

They’d spoken about it briefly a month before, but they were both torn over their two favorite names. For Owen, he was set on Wyatt, but Claire had never been sold on the name. Instead, Henry, once _Harrison_ , came up in their discussions, and it had simply stuck. 

_Henry Wyatt Grady._

As the taller, older woman with frosted grey roots and the god-forsaken bun stepped closer to the bed, Claire could barely contain the sorrow that threatened to burst through her chest and rear its ugly head. It was in her slow, methodical movements that hinted Claire to what was going to happen next. She did what only she knew how to do and reached over and slid her hands beneath their son’s fragile frame and pulled him into her arms, coddling him close to her chest. 

The tears threatened to strangle Claire as her breath bobbed in her throat, restricting any ability she might’ve had to scream at the women who had come to steal her child away from her. Why should she give him up? Henry belonged to _them_ , and nothing they could say or do would ever change that, but they were trying. Claire flashed a wild, scared look at Owen as she tried to communicate with him without saying a single word. How could he sit there and simply stare at her? Why wasn’t he shooing them away, chasing them from the room? Why hadn’t security been called yet? 

His voice was tight as he leaned in close, pressing his lips to the crown of her head and lifting his hand to rest against her forearm. “Claire, _please_.” The last thing Owen wanted was to fight, and he knew by prompting her to respond to the women standing before them, he was playing with literal fire. But, he also didn’t want to stir the emotions that were bound to surface, and it was only a matter of time before they were unleashed. Owen’s quiet pleas merely scraped the surface as Claire pulled their son tighter against her chest and began rocking back and forth as incoherent, heartbreaking mumbling slipped from her lips. Henry’s small head bobbed against her shoulder, the exact moment the social worker stepped forward and took him from her arms. 

The sound of her heart shattering was unmistakeable, almost as if a newborn had suddenly been exchanged, and was shrieking for the sake of breathing in air. Her entire body deflated and she fell to the side, burying her head in Owen’s lap, her mouth agape as she howled in pain. It wasn’t much longer until the women parted from the room, the small infant, his skin a shade away from grey, his lips pallid, covered in a blanket as he laid in the small incubator. They parted from the room without another word; there wasn’t a single word the three women could mutter that would ever change the sorrow she felt. 

The echo of the door closing rang throughout the room for seconds, minutes, _hours_ later, until the sky had turned from a bright robin-egg blue to the somber pale sky that indicated the end of another day. 

For Claire and Owen, it would forever be the day they would relive on repeat; the day they lost a piece of their soul.

[…]

An entire day had passed since she’d woken in the middle of the night with the hopes of going to the hospital to meet their son. As Owen helped her past the threshold of their house — never once letting go of her elbow to ensure she didn’t fall — Claire shook from his grip once she could reach out and grab hold of the counter. 

She hadn’t expected for the realization to linger before hitting with the force a hurricane; the painful truth that Henry Wyatt Grady would never be ushered into their house that once was warm and welcoming, now a distant reminder of the joyous excitement that had surrounded them in the weeks leading up to his due-date. 

There were lingering presents tucked away in the foyer of their home, a reminder of the surprise baby-shower that Elise had not only planned but flew into D.C. for a week before. The breast pump that Claire had been set and determined to put together remained still on the kitchen table in the same place she’d left it the night before they rushed off to the hospital, where she’d been desperate to get set up before she went off to bed, never aware of the torture that had been waiting around the corner. 

As she walked through the kitchen — the only way to get to their bedroom — Claire forced herself to look away from the refrigerator and the doors that were covered in cards from friends and family, along with some of their coworkers from the bureau and the bakery, respectively. Claire and Owen had agreed to keep each and every piece of good wishes that were bestowed upon her pregnancy so they could thank anyone who had kept them in their thoughts. Now, those same thoughts were merely forgotten as she swiped a hand across the cold metal and took another step closer to their bedroom, glancing down at the wooden floor as a group of cards fluttered to the ground, “I want these gone.” 

Those four words were the last Owen would hear her speak for four weeks. Four weeks of silence only changed when he asked a question, and Claire hardly put effort into a groan, grunt, or simply a nod. For every day in the past where he wished she could be serious about something, _anything_ , instead of giving her signature smirk, now he craved to see her features light up. He actually spent a few nights praying to hear her laughter when his eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep, but after the fifth night of unanswered wishes, he gave up and permanently discarded the theory of a God into the ‘Do Not Touch’ category. 

The first three days after they came home from the hospital, Claire lifted herself out of bed to use the restroom, and if it weren’t for the glass of ginger ale (a nurses’ secret to quieting the post-labor cramps) and the package of crackers he placed on the nightstand, she would’ve become dehydrated and withered away before his eyes. Or, more than she already had. Afraid for her wellbeing, there was no other logical choice than for Owen to take time away from work. Much to his surprise, the bureau understood and took his leave of absence better than he’d expected, with the only stipulation to take care of Claire, _and_ himself. 

It continued for another three weeks before Owen sought out help in the form of his biggest support in this battle; Elise. While his sister had given him the cold-hard truth — especially when he had been a dick towards Claire in the form of ‘talking about their _options_ ’ — he’d never expected for his sister to answer the phone with sobs breaking her voice. 

“What did Morgan do?” 

Unashamed to admit it was the first _logical_ thought to come to mind, Owen waited patiently for his sister to calm down enough to speak, all while whispering quiet words in hopes that he could help. Yet, he couldn’t deny the fear that spread through him; all jokes aside, he knew Morgan adored his sister — something he could never be more thankful for than when he moved with Claire, knowing she’d be taken care of — but the paralyzing fear that something had happened to one of their parents. 

There was no need to continue shortening his lifespan with the fear of his little sister being hurt when he heard Elise inhale slowly, a relief after listening to her short, shallow breaths for the majority of twenty minutes. 

“I swear to god, Elise, if he —”

Elise inhaled sharply, ignoring his threats toward her husband, and fired away before she could talk herself down from the edge. “I’m pregnant, and I need you to promise that you won’t tell Claire.”

She’d known for exactly twenty-two days, three hours, and twenty-seven minutes, and the first person she had the guts to tell was her own brother. While she didn’t have a particularly hindered relationship with their parents, Elise had always ran to Owen with the happenings of her life, long before ever letting their parents catch wind of the news; and this was no different. There were several reasons for telling Owen first, but mainly because she knew it would be national news within hours if their mother was told, and that wasn’t something she could risk having happen. Owen deserved to be told by her, and not some FaceBook post from their parents who were technologically illiterate. 

“Please, Owen, say something. You’re being too quiet and I need you to say something or else I’m going to think you’re dead.” Her pleas fell to a mere whisper as she clutched the phone to her ear, her only thoughts revolving around how she’d royally fucked up. 

While Owen’s head was swamped with jealousy, his heart was lodged in his throat, unwilling to let him speak. His little sister, this precious soul who he’d loved so much since he knew she would be making her way into this world, was going to be a mother, and he couldn’t help but feel that same envy increasing every second that passed and he thought what a lucky fucker Morgan was. Here he was, thirty-two years old and he simply wanted to be a father; he was practically born for it. And now, when they’d decided to piss on the rest of the world and their opinions on Claire’s pregnancy, the world decided to make fools out of them. Now, he was left to realize that green was _not_ a good color on him.

“When did you find out?” As if it were the most important question and he needed an answer before he could even utter a round of congratulations, Owen fell silent as he waited for Elise to scold him. 

Except, instead of fighting his narrow-minded assumptions and asking why he insisted on being a dick when he should’ve been happy for her — despite the situation — Elise muttered the words she knew he would have regrets on knowing. “The morning before Claire was admitted. I was at work, and I worked a double, so by the time I got home and then I slept for an entire day and, when I woke up, I had the text from you so I forgot about myself and focused solely on you.” 

Owen barely heard her muffled apology as he dropped his phone and ran back inside from his seat out on the front porch, darting into the nearest bathroom as he emptied the contents of his stomach once, twice, three times, until the only thing he pitched into the toilet were the dreams of being a father, now flushed down the drain, replaced with the secret that held the potential to shatter souls, including his own.

[…]

A week after Elise’s pregnancy reveal, Owen knew he had to sit down with Claire; he had to tell her. It had been the longest week of his life and the goddamn secret was eating through the layers of him, threatening to destroy him, and leave behind the silhouette of a man who once was. It was bad enough that he and Claire had just lived through what was their worst nightmare hidden beneath layers of murky water, and they were already struggling to float along the surface, but now he had to find the strength to tell Claire that his sister was pregnant. He had to find the ability to be happy for this sister while sharing in the grief that Claire was forced under.  

It wasn’t difficult to find where Claire would be as she hadn’t left their bed for more than ten minutes at a time, with the exception of three days before when she stood in the corner of the room while he replaced the bedding, hoping it would bring her some comfort. Yet, when he wandered to the threshold of their bedroom to see an _empty_ bed, his heart shot into overdrive and accompanied his brain in drumming up the worst possible scenarios that flashed before him. He turned on his heel in a rush to grab his phone from the kitchen counter when he peered across the room to see Claire curled at the end of the couch, her head resting on the arm, and a wool blanket wrapped tightly around her small frame. 

 _Claire._ His heart broke at the mere sight of her, and just when he found himself questioning how she’d moved without being seen, it was then that it dawned on him. He’d been trying to _fix_ the broken pieces, using as little glue as needed, that he forgot to let the pieces have space to dry before cracking under immense pressure once again.

First, she noticed the way he walked towards her like one would a stray dog; keeping their neck craned to ensure they could watch the wild animal at all times incase they attacked, or reaching out a hand as if it were an olive branch. She, however, did not appreciate the way he walked on eggshells around him; it was insulting, to say the least, but even Claire knew he meant well, while being too stubborn to admit it aloud. 

“Can you please sit down and stop staring at me like an animal at the zoo?” 

Her voice, scratchy and harsh against the thick tension that lingered between them, was like coming up for a breath of fresh air after being chained beneath water for years. Owen could hardly tear his eyes away from hers, curious when she didn’t look away from him. It was as if this woman, someone he loved without a single doubt, could see straight through his thick skin into his soul. Did she already know about Elise? Had his sister called her in a pure panic, needing to confide in her about the pregnancy? Had Claire heard them talking the week before? He was sure he’d been alone on the porch, but if the moments before had taught him anything, he hadn’t been nearly as perceptive as maybe he should have. 

He eased himself to sit at the opposite end of the couch, resting both hands on his thighs, and stared down as he linked his fingers together. The longer he held off on speaking, the worse it was going to be, even if all he wanted was to pull her into his arms. But, when he opened his mouth to speak, what he unleashed was far different than anything he had planned.

“I’m terrified that I’m going to lose you, Claire.” He wrung his hands forcefully until his skin turned pale, his knuckles clutched tightly. _Well, I can’t exactly stop now._ “And I know that you’re going through more, even more than I could ever imagine, but at the end of the day I can’t help but to watch how you’re withering away right in front of me. You’re —” He shook his head, trying to get a grasp on the words that rolled from the tip of his tongue while knowing that, with one slip, this could go terribly.

“What is it that you want me to say, Owen?” Claire motioned around them, at the empty, quiet house, an eery reminder of _who_ they didn’t bring home. “Every single day I wake up, and the first thing I do is touch my stomach and, for the life of me, I try to convince myself that our son is still inside me, still growing, still _alive_ and healthy. Then, when I finally get to the bathroom and the nausea is suffocating me, I’m reminded that our son is no longer alive. We brought home ashes to bury, and they’re sitting in that goddamn urn on the kitchen counter. So I don’t know what you want me to say?” As hard as she may have tried to keep her voice calm and restricted, there came a point where she wasn’t able to keep herself so calm any more. For a solid month, the pain had been chipping away at her, never once letting her slip into a different realm, one where she didn’t have to think about the child she’d lost. 

When he didn’t answer, Claire shot him an incredulous look and raised both hands in defense. “What do you want me to say, Owen? Tell me what you want to hear and I’ll say it. Do you want to know that I’m peachy and everything is going _great_?” Her voice rose as the tears welled behind her eyes and threatened to break past the brim.

Until this point, Owen had prided himself on being able to stay calm and collected to offset her heartbreak, and only wanted her to know that she could count on him to be the strong force they would both need. And, even when he wanted to, Owen never once pushed her to talk and never wanted her to feel like he was breathing down her neck while being at home together. 

“Oh, come on, Claire. Do you hear me asking you to lie about how you’re feeling?” While he had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes, Owen tried to remind himself to have patience with the situation; they were both still going through a healing process, but what he couldn’t understand was why they couldn’t do it _together_. It felt like they were on polar ends of the earth, working _away_ instead of coming towards each other.

The tension was thick, palpable, tightly strung between the two, and neither could deny its presence in the air. A month prior, Owen would’ve never imagined that Claire would be torn over letting him comfort her; but then he would’ve never predicted they wouldn’t be over the moon with joy of having their son home with them. 

“Let’s just face it,” Claire pushed herself to the edge of the couch before she dropped her head into her hands, “this has changed us. We are not the same people who went to the hospital that morning, thrilled at the thought of meeting _our baby,_ our Henry. The one we’ve dreamt about for months. But do you know what still bothers me?” 

Once she finally looked over to meet his stare, Owen made mental note of the painful expression that had erased _his_ Claire, but didn’t dare hold her back from saying exactly what was on her mind. 

“You’re not grieving this loss, so I can only be led to believe that you’re not upset that Henry isn’t here with us.” 

The words seemed to still in the air between them, caught between the two realms they both existed in, and it was that moment which etched a line between them. It wasn’t meant to separate them — if anything, losing a child should’ve been a moment for them to heal together — but now there was no chance of such a tragedy pulling them closer. They would be forced, for worse or better, to finish the healing process alone. 

Anger turned his vision red and when he angled his head toward Claire, there was a moment where he didn’t recognize his fiancée sitting merely feet away from him. The shell of the woman he had fallen in love with had been emptied and taken prisoner by the grief; officially, it had consumed her. So, he did the one — the only — thing he knew how to do. He lashed out, determined to force her to feel pain thrumming through her body. “I’m not grieving? Don’t tell me that I’m not grieving, goddamnit, Claire. If you hadn’t killed our son, we wouldn’t be in this situation, would we?” The words spewed from him as if he were now a broken faucet, spilling onto the floor around them. Then, in the matter of seconds, his words turned into quicksand and began to consume him, restricting his ability to stand as he watched Claire push herself away from the couch, his vision blurring as she escaped from the room.

The grief consumed him as the moments snuck past, turning into hours, until he was passed out on the couch and the clock struck midnight. When he woke, life would never be the same, and Claire would be _gone_. 

[…]

Waking to a silent house was like waking up with a pounding headache; no matter how slowly he sat up, the silence was overwhelming and drilled a burrow hole straight through his skull. 

Until the night before came screaming to his memory. Claire, and _Henry_ ; the way they screamed at each other until there was no longer a common theme of healing together or trying to get past the hurt of losing their son. And she hadn’t left until he said those unforgivable words; until he accused Claire of killing their unborn child. 

It was that reminder that forced him to search for his phone, grabbing the pillows on the couch and throwing them to the floor in a fury to find his phone. _What the fuck did I do with it last night?_ He searched in-between the couch cushions, dug a hand through the back of the couch, and as he stood and swiveled to walk into the bedroom, hoping he’d find it there, he spotted it on the kitchen counter.

There was no note beside it written in her perfect cursive, the type that no one bothered to write in anymore, and no coffee brewing like he’d woken up to every day since they moved in together. There was no _Claire_ to slide up behind, to embrace his arms around her and push forward until she was pinned against the countertop. No, not this morning. Instead, when he tapped the screen, his phone lit up with dozens of missed calls on top of multiple text messages. Upon closer look, none were from Claire. 

Instead, he had an entire phone worth of antsy, angry, and astounded texts from Elise. 

_‘Claire just called me, what the fuck happened?’_

_‘Are you still awake?’_

**_One missed call from Elise._ **

_‘Owen, you better fucking call me back.’_

_‘I am pregnant and my emotions are on a rampage and they’re currently telling me to kill you.’_

_‘Okay, I’m not sorry, but I do know there are two sides to every story. Fucking call me.’_

**_One missed call from Elise._ **

_‘Fine, so you aren’t going to call me. Text me in the morning then. I love you, y’know.’_

**_One missed call from Elise._ **

_‘I figured I would at least try to see if you were still awake. Maybe I should’ve blocked my number first to see if you would answer.’_

**_One missed call from Unknown Caller._ **

Hours had seemed to pass since her last call and, as if his sister telepathically knew he was awake (not to mention from hundreds of miles way), Owen’s phone buzzed in his hand. 

_‘Owen, it is now 10 FUCKING AM. CALL ME!!!!!!’_

Maybe it was the simple fact that he knew Elise would not stop bothering him until he did call back, or that she would go to whatever lengths it took to murder him if he didn’t, but he was wrangled by utter guilt into tapping her name on his phone and pressed it to his ear until he heard it ring. 

“What the fuck happened last night?” While Elise honestly tried her best to keep a biased, third-party opinion of what Claire had told her the night before after leaving the house once Owen was asleep, she simply couldn’t. 

When Claire — who she considered more than just an (almost) sister-in-law — had called her the night before in hysterics, stating she had left the house in a rush with nothing but her phone, wallet, and keys, Elise couldn’t help but to side with her when she was distraught and heartbroken. Sure, maybe she’d never felt the same pain and silently prayed that she never would, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t understand the heartache. 

Owen sighed quietly, knowing that if he jumped into defending himself she would completely disqualify his feelings. Why wouldn’t she? It’d be an asshole move considering _he_ was the one who’d brought it on. He’d been living with Elise’s dominant personality since the day she was born and she screamed every time he tried to hold her, despite the fact that he was eight and more than capable of holding a newborn. 

“I know what you’re going to say, and it isn’t —”

“Oh, so you think you know what I’m going to say? You have not a single idea, Owen. Your fiancée, someone you claim to _love,_ called me last night and she was literally hysterical. She didn’t know where she was going to go or where she’d sleep for the night, but she couldn’t be in the house with you. Do you know how terrible that is? And she told me what you said, and it isn’t like you. The first words the two of you have exchanged in a month and you blamed her for killing _your_ child.” When she finally had to take a breath, inhaling sharply, Elise paused with the verbal assault to offer a chance for him to talk. 

Except for the fact that he clearly wasn’t going to take the bait. 

“You honestly have nothing to say? You’re not even going to try and tell me you didn’t scream at her that she _killed_ your _unborn child_?” The anger in her voice was steady, streaming and unwilling to break. 

“I did _not_ scream, for—”

“No, Owen, you lost your goddamn chance to speak. No, now you’re going to listen to what I have to say. Got it?” She only broke in the angry tirade of abuse to ensure that her idiot brother was actually listening before she continued, insulting his lack of sympathy for his to-be wife. “And do you know what is the worst part? That you haven’t even asked where she is. Have you noticed that she isn’t at home, in the bedroom, where she’s been for the past month?” 

While it may have stung initially that Claire had called his sister before she called him, Owen wasn’t oblivious to why. Where he’d once been a sense of protection had been temporarily found in Elise. In the matter of seconds, he’d turned into a man Claire hadn’t recognized and, while he may not have realized it at first, he was turning into a bitter person and losing sense of himself. 

“You know, she hates herself right now, but she’ll never admit that to you. She can’t even look herself in the mirror because she sees a woman who let you down, who let herself down, and she _lost_ your child, Owen. She didn’t just lose him inside a theme park, or at the goddamn grocery store. Her body, one that was supposed to be a place of protection for your son to grow, decided that it could no longer be. So, while you’ve been trying to recreate a life that you had _before_ her pregnancy, she’s trying to figure out how to continue living _after_.”

Owen hung his head forward and let out an aggravated sigh; he had no reason to be upset with Claire, and he wasn’t, but he was disappointed in himself. For letting down the one person he loved more than a sunny day, for hurting her in reaction to the pain he felt within himself. “I need to go find her.” 

She scoffed and bit her tongue to let out a sarcastic _‘yeah, you should’ve said that the moment you woke to realize she wasn’t home’_ , but that point had already been reiterated enough. “Well, you know where’s she at; the place she does her best thinking.”

 _The bakery._  

Owen scrubbed a hand over his beard, growling at the scruff that had grown in the absence of shaving. While he knew that his hair was mussed from sleeping on the couch, he couldn’t be bothered to care as he grabbed his keys from the hook by the refrigerator and slid his feet into a pair of loafers that hid next to the couch. “Thank you, for being there for her when I couldn’t be.” 

A shrill laugh filled the line, and she knew he would soon figure out it wasn’t for the better. “It’s not that you couldn’t, you just chose not to,” Elise shrugged, clearly aggravated, “but now you can choose to rectify the mistake you made. So, call me later, alright?” 

He was already out the door and halfway to his car before he turned towards the house, debating whether or not to let Echo out before he left. Choosing against it, knowing it could very well be another mistake, he only had Claire on his mind and knew he needed to get to her sooner or later. “Yeah, I’ll call you once everything is figured out.” 

Elise pulled the phone away from her ear, ready to hang up, before she called out for him, hoping he was still on the other end, when she was met with his uneasy breathing instead of silence, she continued. “I still love you, and you’ll always be my brother, but you have to find yourself before you expect her to do the same.” 

[…]

When he took the first few steps into the bakery, he was assaulted with a dozen different aromas that hardly were meant to be mixed into the same room. Cinnamon and garlic, mint and vanilla, it was effortless to inhale slowly and identify each considering he was often the taste-tester for most new concoctions. Although today he doubted there was going to be much offered to him. 

Owen walked further in to hear the steady rhythm of the stand-mixer going to town with kneading dough, and when he glanced into the kitchen his heart dropped miles into his stomach. Claire faced away from him, one hand clutching the counter and the other pressed a ball of dough into the flour-dusted counter, and when he glanced around, her cane was nowhere in sight. 

Even if he was tempted to speak up, Owen couldn’t force himself to, and instead stood across the kitchen, leaning against the counter. It felt like just yesterday that he’d helped her settle into the D.C. space that would eventually come to be her bakery. 

Claire had decided on the space on a short weekend visit to D.C. weeks before they’d moved, one they took together to find a house, too. The moment she stepped inside the corner space in the heart of Georgetown — the very last the realtor had to offer — Claire knew it was meant to be. The kitchen was wide open and spacious, offering her room to maneuver around, but the real selling point was the increased dining space. Oh how she’d missed having enough room for her loyal patrons to sit and enjoy the morning croissants or freshly made, old-fashioned doughnuts. 

“You know, just because you stand there without moving doesn’t mean I can’t hear you breathing, or that I didn’t hear you come in the back door, or that I even want to talk to you.” With her back still turned towards her fiancé, Claire dropped both hands to the countertop, clutching the hardening dough beneath her fingertips. “You know what I still don’t understand?” It was all she could do to contain her fiery glare when she turned towards him, but there was no use; when she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, Claire saw the dark circles beneath his eyes and the wrinkles at the corner of his mouth that were merely defined by the frown he held. 

As a quiet sigh slipped past his lips, he raised both hands in defense. “Claire, I didn’t come here to fight, I just want you to come home.”

“Oh, you didn’t come here to fight?” She slapped a flour-covered hand against her thigh, leaving a dusted handprint on her long, black maxi skirt. _Well damn, because I have my boxing gloves in the backseat of the car, asshole._ “Well damn, you could’ve fooled me. What did you come here for? Some breakfast? A freshly baked bagel, or maybe a chocolate chip muffin?”

“No because, contrary to popular belief, I had more than enough fighting last night and it isn’t exactly something I want to do again. And, even then, not here…” Owen glanced around at the café she’d spend so much time perfecting and recognized it as her safe-place. It didn’t matter what happened between them, but the pride and joy she poured into her work could never be taken away from Claire.

Claire turned to grab for her cane and, when she took a step to the side and realized it wasn’t where she’d left it, she ended up knocking a baking sheet of chocolate-dipped croissants to the floor. “Goddamnit,” she muttered, looking between the chocolate-covered floor and the last place she’d remembered putting her cane. The _last thing_ she wanted now was a lecture from Owen about using her cane on the rather difficult days, but with one glance at him, it seemed to be the farther from his mind. “You know, I can’t believe you would ever say something so fucking ridiculous to me. And, on top of that, you didn’t even call me this morning. I realize you were asleep when I left last night, but this morning?” 

Granted, Claire knew that Elise had gotten through to him and gave him a piece of sisterly advice, or else he wouldn’t be here. That, and the younger Grady had promised her as much. Not that either woman thought he wouldn’t figure it out, but Claire couldn’t stand to stay in the house a second longer, and when she’d called Elise at nearly one in the morning — after ensuring that he’d been asleep for at least thirty minutes — the woman swore circles around Claire and promised that she’d be on the first flight to D.C. with her concealed weapon the next morning.

_“No, I don’t want him dead, I want him alive so he can realize the pain he’s causing.”_

So much for sticking up for him.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, because I’m pretty damn sure that _anything_ I say right now isn’t going to be what you want to hear. Am I sorry for blaming Henry’s death on you? Of course, of course I am, and I wish I could inhale so fast that it would erase any account of that happening,” he paused and dropped his gaze to the floor, drawing a heart in the flour with the toe of his shoe. “But does that mean those words are going to help you? No, it doesn’t, but I need you to believe me when I say that last night was the bitter, selfish part of me _needing_ to have someone to blame.”

When he finally worked up the nerve to lift his gaze to hers, Owen saw the silent tears welling in her eyes, and he wanted so badly to close the distance and lift his hand to her cheek, cupping her jaw gently. “You, Claire Elizabeth, are the bravest woman I have ever had the pleasure of loving, and knowing that I hurt you? It’s the greatest disservice I could ever give you.” 

But, he couldn’t. Owen couldn’t physically force himself to move closer, and he wouldn’t dare put a hand on Claire without her _spoken_ consent. In ways, he felt like they were on opposite sides of the earth and, as badly as they wanted to be together, they were magnetized in the wrong direction. Instead, he bent down between them and began cleaning the floor, at least until she began to yell. 

“Goddamnit, Owen! Leave it on the floor! Saving our relationship is more important than the fucking croissants which aren’t worth salvaging — I _cannot_ sell those once they’ve touched the floor.” Even if she wanted to _kick_ them farther away, out of reach, even Claire knew when to stop. The problem with that was listening to herself over the thoughts in her head that told her to continue, to keep pushing until _finally_ he would shove back. 

“Don’t you understand why I’m upset? Because you don’t seem like you do. You’re acting like I’m _here_ because I want to be, like I came here in the middle of the night so that I could try out some new recipe, or bake up a batch of cupcakes for the birthday party I was hired for next week.”  

While Claire knew when to call it quits, Karen had talked her into it as something to _‘take your mind off what’s going on around you’._ Although, what her sister failed to realize was how _everything_ could be related to Henry. She baked with him nearly every day she was pregnant, and had even come to know what his favorite spices would be once he was born. It seemed that, when he was having a rather rowdy day, tossing and turning in her stomach, that mint would calm him. Yet, on the days where she used spicier ingredients, such as when she would (rarely) make spicy Mexican hot chocolate cookies, and she inhaled a whiff of the cayenne pepper, it seemed to cause a chain reaction within. Or how, even when Elise had flown into town for the baby shower that she planned all the way from Chicago, Claire had _begged_ the other woman to allow her to make the cake. 

Since Elise didn’t know a _reputable_ bakery in D.C. — and she was incredibly partial to _anything_ Claire could bake — she allowed it. What Claire had designed was a piece of work. A three-tier cake, the top level — a vanilla cake with a blueberry center — was covered in white fondant with tiny, pale blue fondant-cut stars. The second level was a traditional chocolate cake, covered in the same pale blue fondant but the opposite of the first tier with white fondant-cut stars, and the bottom layer was the same as the top on the outside, but it was her favorite flavor: chocolate-chip mint. Two days before the baby shower, while Claire stood tirelessly in the kitchen at the bakery slaving away on a cake she was sure she’d eat the most of, she made a single cupcake out of the same batter, lit a candle on top, and dedicated it to their unborn son. _“May the smell of mint always remind you of home,”_ she’d told him and laughed quietly to herself. 

“You know what,” Owen sighed and shook his head, dragging a hand over his face, “maybe I don’t understand why you’re here. I know the things I said to you hurt, I _understand_ that, but I’m standing here trying to make it better. I just want you to come home so that we can start to fix things.” 

For the first time since he’d shown up, Claire pressed forward a smile, while it wasn’t as genuine as he’d remembered in the past. “That’s the thing, Owen. They _can’t_ be fixed with a snap of your fingers, nor mine. We can’t just sit down for a wonderfully made dinner and pretend none of it happened, and trust me, I’ve tried. I want nothing more than to have you and I be on the same note, but I feel like it’s impossible. It’s impossible to get close to you because I don’t know when you’re going to act out with your fear and _hatred_ —”

Owen stepped forward only to watch his fiancée take a quick step backwards, backing herself against the countertop. “I _don’t_ hate you,” he breathed, aware that he may not have spoken the words. “I hate what is happening to us, and what you’ve been drug through, but I have never, not for a moment, hated you. Not even when I was saying those terrible words to you 

“I have,” she inhaled sharply as her eyes glazed over with fresh tears and her voice dropped, “I have hated myself, and I still do.” 

Owen was forced to watch as Claire physically deflated in front of him, reaching behind to hold herself up against the countertop, faltering as her legs wobbled beneath her. It hardly took a second for him to step forward and link both arms around her waist, most concerned about her collapsing and hitting the floor than any personal space they needed between them. Comforted in the fact that she didn’t try to shove him away and wrapped her arms around his neck as he easily pulled her flush against his chest, Owen breathed in the warm vanilla scent she seemed to bathe in while she was in ‘the office’.

“Hey, shh, you’re alright,” he breathed, pressing his lips against the crown of her head when he heard her breathing pick up. It was the last thing Owen wanted for her — to let the agonizing pain that was weighing on her shoulders to be given the power to take over.

“That’s what I’m terrified of, Owen, what if I’m never going to be okay again?” Once she could stand on her own two feet, Claire pulled back and put a few feet between them as she reached for her cane, or the ‘goddamn walking stick’ as she liked to refer to it as. “What if _we’re_ never okay again? Do you think we can live like that? Separated, but our hearts never letting go of each other?”

Unfortunately, he couldn’t give her the answer he knew she was seeking. The most he could do was shrug before he stepped forward and kissed her forehead. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, yeah? Now, tell me, what do you want on your pizza? I’ll stop and pick it up on my way home, but you take your time here. I’ll be waiting, for as long as you need.”

Owen didn’t linger for long, not wanting to bring on another bought of fights, and left without another word. But while he didn’t say anything else to Claire, the words hidden beneath the anxiety in his mind were fighting to break to the surface; what he couldn’t handle was the ‘what if’ of their relationship ending over a fight of a child they were no longer able to hold.

[…]

“Tell me you’ve told her.” 

The other end of the line was dead, and for a moment Owen actually mused the idea that Elise had hung up. And, if he hadn’t known his sister better, he would have assumed as much and proceeded to end the call, but he knew Elise better. 

She could practically hear her brother scoffing at the _assumption_ that she had yet to tell Claire that she was pregnant. And so what if he was right, it wasn’t like she was _hiding_ the truth from the other woman. “You are kidding me, right? Come on, Owen, it’s only been six weeks and—”

“It’s been _six weeks_ , Elise, and she’s going to find out sooner or later. And it will _not_ be at my doing.”

When Elise called in the midst of Owen cooking a nice dinner for Claire and himself, Owen felt the guilt seep its way into the back of his mind — the same guilt that he’d prided himself on being able to push away in the weeks after Elise had confessed her pregnancy to him. For the past two weeks since he’d shown up at the bakery and the lines of communication were opened between him and Claire, they’d started making their way back. Neither presumed it would be a transformation that happened over night, but they’d agreed that they weren’t willing to give up for the sake of not moving forward. And, for that — for the second chance he was being given — Owen had promised her a homemade dinner (of his choice).

Chicken parmesan it was. That was, if Elise would leave him be. 

“Honestly, I don’t see the harm in letting it go a few more weeks. You aren’t actively lying to her, are you? And, I don’t think she’s ready for the news, it’s only been six weeks since you both lost Henry, and for her to hear about another woman who is thrilled beyond belief for her own pregnancy?” Elise cringed at her own choice of words, but merely stayed quiet for a few moments until she heard her brother rattling around the kitchen. “Are you ignoring me?”

“No, I’m choosing to ignore your personal choice of words and, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m starting to hate the fact that you even chose to tell me.” 

Well, the cat was out of the bag now. 

“Okay, that’s fair of you to say because you didn’t exactly ask to have such a heavy secret to hold, but at the same time I’m your sister, Owen. I’m your goddamn family, your _only_ sibling, and I desperately needed someone to tell. So I’m sorry if it was such an inconvenience and it’s causing you so much _pain_.” Once Elise started rattling off she couldn’t stop herself, and there was no holding back on adding insult to injury. 

“Right,” Owen swallowed thickly and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Claire would be home any minute and if she saw him in this state — tear-filled eyes, shallow breaths — she’d know something was wrong, and this time he wouldn’t be able to blame it on watching re-runs of _Law and Order._ “I’m going to file that under ‘ _shit your sister says when she’s pregnant_ ’, tell you that I love you, and let you go because I have chicken to cook.” 

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know the deeper meaning behind his words and, on any other given day, Elise would’ve let it go. Not today, though. She couldn’t risk Claire finding out; not this soon. It was the entire reasoning behind her decision to beg her brother not to tell his fiancée — Elise knew that Claire wouldn’t be able to handle the news; Owen would be an uncle before being a father? How would that create anything good for the two of them when they were already in fragile territory? 

But what Elise didn’t know was that Owen saw improvement in Claire on a daily basis. Not only was she smiling more since they’d _‘temporarily made up’ —_ as Claire had referred to it one night while talking to Karen — but she was eating more regularly despite hardly being able to keep much down. Although, when mentioned to her primary physician, was told it was nothing anything to worry about. _‘Your body will begin to heal itself,’_ he’d told her, and Owen couldn’t help but roll his eyes, yet he had rewarded himself after with ice-cream for remaining quiet.

“All I'm saying is that I’m only eleven weeks pregnant, and the baby is hardly the size of a passion fruit. I’ll call Claire and tell her when I think the time is right, so just let go of the guilt of keeping it from her, yeah? Blame it all on me when she finds out and it blows up in your face. I’ll take the fall.” Despite the fact that she had _nothing_ to be upset over, Elise was short with Owen for the remainder of their conversation and barely muttered a stifled goodbye when he hung up. 

Just as he shoved his phone into his back pocket Owen heard the side door lock click shut and it wasn’t thirty seconds later that Claire stepped into the kitchen with a gentle smile plastered to her features. To say it looked _off_ , Owen would never admit, but he was happy to see her so cheerful when the past month and a half had been so bleak. 

“Someone’s happy to be home tonight…” He smiled and turned to meet her when she reached for his arm, unable to take his eyes off her. He wanted to pause and capture any moment they had that was reflective of who they were _before_ hell invaded their lives, and if it were any indication that she were feeling better, it would be the night to pull out the polaroid and snap a picture or two. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and instead of seeing everything through a black and white camera the lens blends into the brightest colors. 

Claire, however, didn’t seem to notice. Either that or she had suddenly excelled in her ability to pull off one hell of a poker-face. But, as much as she wanted to keep up the playful ruse, she glanced around the kitchen as if she were expecting others to be there with them. “Well, I had a doctor’s appointment today with Dr. Cantor,” she breathed as her lips quirked into a soft smile at the corners. 

“And…” 

“And…she gave me the all clear for having sex again.” 

 _Well, that was slightly unexpected._ For six weeks, Owen had been wary about sleeping beside her much less sleeping _with_ her. It was as if every move he made was scrutinized — mostly by himself — and he would die if he did something to jeopardize the mountains they’d moved to get to where they currently stood. When she’d left to go to the bakery earlier that morning — for a meeting, nonetheless — they kissed, and it wasn’t one that was long and drawn out; he was barely given enough time to recognize that she’d used a different toothpaste before she was out the door, leaving a trail of dust in her path.

Claire cocked her head the side and reached out for the counter, her legs unsteady beneath her. “Why don’t you look excited?” 

Was it blatantly obvious that he was caught off-guard by the sudden show of interest in sex again, or did he seem like the normal guy — trying to play it cool — whose fiancée just told him they were cleared to have sex again? By the shocked, confused, and slightly overwhelmed expression that coated her features, Owen assumed the former. 

“Who said I wasn’t excited? I’m just…”

“ _Nervous_? Me too.” 

Nervous was one way to put it, but _terrified_ was his own choice of explanations that he would ultimately keep to himself. It wasn’t that he was uneasy about _having_ sex — he’d always been able to be himself when it came to Claire, and so much of that stemmed from her being a virgin, he assumed — but now, in the _after_ , there was so much to lose. 

“I don’t want to jump into anything,” he breathed, never once taking his eyes off her. He didn’t want to give the impression that he was no longer attracted to her, or didn’t have the desire to be with her again, simply because neither was true. “I just don't want you to push yourself farther than you’re willing to go, especially when you were _just_ cleared.” 

While it was a bit of a slap, maybe on the ass instead of the face, his gentle denial gave her the extra bit of courage that she had ultimately been searching for. “Well,” she tucked in her upper lip and pouted, shrugging casually as she stepped to the other side of the kitchen, reaching up into the cupboard to get a glass. “it’s really your loss, because I might’ve bought a surprise today, but it isn’t something you’re going to see otherwise.” 

Was it mean to _trick_ him into being open to more than sleeping with their backs turned toward the other? No. Was it for his benefit that he accept the olive branch she offered in exchange for the brand new black lace lingerie she was currently wearing? Yes. 

“You bought a surprise?” Instantly his interest was piqued. Not only had she ventured out on her own and gone to a doctor’s appointment without asking him to come along, Claire had gone to the mall, where there were hoards of people, and risked running into someone she knew or a loyal patron at the bakery and being asked about her _recovery,_ all for what? To _surprise_ him with fancy lingerie that she thought she needed to make her body desirable? But, it went without needed to be verbalized that he was infinitely proud of her. Although, for he sake of not embarrassing her, Owen internalized his pride for her and merely shrugged. “I think I can be _bribed_ into something of the sort…”

Unsure if it was the change of the weather as winter finally gave way to the pressure of the spring, or if she was genuinely beginning to part the shades of depression, but it was all Claire could do to deter herself from turning off the stove and leading him back into their bedroom, leaving the parmesan chicken to sit untouched for the remainder of the night.

Instead, they found the restraint or the smallest bit of self-control and made it through dinner without pawing at each other. That was until Owen stood at the sink and busied himself with rinsing off the plates and cutlery they used for dinner, loading them into the dishwasher while Claire took Echo outside for a quick walk. It gave him the chance to clear his mind and to process what the rest of the evening would possibly hold. 

How had they gone from hardly talking to now being open enough to approach the idea of having sex again? Was it simply because she’d been given the all clear from her doctor, or because they were ready? _Ready_ was quite the overwhelming statement considering he was still trying to comprehend the last _eight months._

Whether he simply hadn’t head the door open or Claire had learned to be stealthy, Owen groaned when she found her way behind him, sliding both arms around his waist as she rested her head in the center of his back, inches below his shoulder blades. Without planning it, he stopped mid-wash and dropped the dish into the sink, exhaling every bit of oxygen from his lungs, as he began to think of the time it’d been since they’d _purposely_ touched. Sure, their legs rubbed in bed and there had been a night or two where Claire had to wake up him to help her out of bed — thanks to her spine and its hatred for its _host body_.

“If I said I’ve missed you, would you even believe me?” Her voice was so quiet, nearly inaudible, and if it weren’t for their close proximity and the ability to pick up on the rise of her chest as she spoke, Owen would’ve assumed she was merely as quiet as his thoughts. 

Yet, he couldn’t ignore her, even if he’d ever wanted to. He couldn’t merely bypass them and jump on the one-way train to fucking each other into an oblivion, either. “There are a lot of things I want to believe, Claire.” He paused, hanging his head forward just as he felt her hands slip beneath his shirt, her nails scratching across his stomach. 

“I want to prove that I’ve missed you, that’s all I’m asking for. One chance to show you that I can fix this, that I can help both of us make it through this, that we can start healing together.” She was practically begging and, if he had asked her to drop to her knees, Claire wouldn’t hesitate. 

There was sick piece of his mind, tucked way in a far corner, that pondered the idea of what their lives would amount to if they didn’t move past this detour in the road. Would they still be engaged ten years down the line, but hardly speaking to one another? Would they _eventually_ reconcile somewhere down the line and try to make the most of the bits and pieces of their relationship they could mend?

Owen wasn’t willing to risk it. Within a second, just as he could feel her begin to pull away, he turned towards her and circled both arms around her waist, pulling Claire flush against him. “I’m not going to let you go,” he breathed, shaking his head, “when I asked you to marry me, I meant it, and I don’t care if you push me away ten times, I’m still going to try twelve times to get you back.” 

The next moments moved in slow motion as he reached for her hand and began to lead Claire towards their bedroom, ignoring the whines from Echo that came at their heels. They barely made it a foot past the threshold before Owen had her squeezed against the wall, one hand snaking beneath her shirt as he rushed to unbutton her jeans with the other. 

He followed her throaty moans in leading himself to gauge how far she wanted to go, and as he nudged her towards the bed, Claire pulled back with a quick shake of her head. “Turn the lights off, please?” 

Owen blinked to give himself time to clear his mind, taken aback by her request. Turn the lights off? _Why_? It was as if he’d been completely oblivious to her needs since the day they came home from the hospital, but he’d done the best he could without hovering on top of her. But now, as he thought back to every single night they’d slept in the same bed since that tragic day, there was a common theme mingled with each; she was no longer simply wearing whatever she could find, be it a sports bra and a pair of his boxers, or one of his shirts that hung on her like a dress. 

“Let’s made a truce,” he bent over and gingerly pressed his lips to the side of her neck, just below her ear, before trailing his way to whisper, “I won’t peek, and we keep the lights on? I want to see the look in your eyes when you come back to me.”

Claire inhaled sharply when he spoke and spent a moment trying to catch her breath. From the moment she’d found out they were expecting, everything had led up to the birth, and when they didn’t bring Henry home, when they were forced to return to a house that was decorated for a newborn, Claire thought the rest of their lives would be ruined. Now as they began to find their way back, she was reminded of the reasons she’d fallen in love with Owen in the first place, and how their first date — which seemed like eons in the past — was one that needed to be remembered. But as much time as she’d spent trying to grasp who they were _before,_ she hadn’t realized she was trying to change who they were _now_. 

Instead of answering him, Claire merely dropped her hands to his waist and began tugging at his jeans, trying anything to drop the material to the floor. One button and three tries at the zipper later, Owen was laughing as he stepped out of his pants and backed her towards their bed. It was almost ridiculous the amount of butterflies that had found their way to his stomach, turning him into a jittery mess instead of the confident, somewhat dominant personality in bed. 

With a quick decision, he decided to let Claire climb onto the bed first, smirking at the sight of her pale thighs that stood out beneath her black shirt. He hardly waited a second to follow her, straddling her waist with a knee carving an implant into the mattress on either side of her, and before he could lean over to kiss her, Claire used his shirt as leverage and tugged him down onto her, eliciting soft laughter between the two. 

Their lips connected in a fury of passion and desire hidden among days and weeks of desolate silence. For a much as Owen breathed into her, Claire wasn’t playing the meek card; she tugged at his shirt until it was pulled up his back, showing his flexed muscles as they rippled beneath her touch. For each move she made, he countered with a mirror image until she was in the lacy number she had taunted him with, Owen in his boxers. 

He pulled back to admire her still form beneath his body and shook his head when she moved her hands to rest over her stomach, attempting to hide from him. “Claire…” His voice was soft and unassuming as he wanted to give her a chance to speak. Jesus, he’d won the fucking lottery and he wished he’d been more vocal about it before when he’d had the chance. But now? He swore to not let a day pass without telling her.

“I just…it’s the one piece of myself that I can’t forgive,” she breathed, shaking her head as she met his gaze, “not yet.” 

“Maybe that’s because you’re not ready to, but I have.” Somewhere along the weeks they’d spent barely talking to each other, Owen had realized that he had no reason to be upset with Claire, and there wasn’t one single person he could pinpoint the blame on.  A month ago, while he was still bitter about losing their son, Owen was choosing to blame anyone but himself. Dr. Cantor, for failing to take the necessary precautions, the countless technicians they’d met over the course of her pregnancy who hadn’t noticed the lack of a heartbeat on the ultrasounds, and both of them for being so naïve about the entire process. 

Gathering both her wrists in one hand, Owen pressed her arms to rest extended along the mattress as he lowered his lips to her skin, starting just between her breasts and kissing his way up her sternum. He only ever wanted to continue lavishing love upon her until she believed the words he muttered between each kiss he pressed against her soft complexion. He kissed across the front of her bra, able to see the soft mixture of pinks pressing through the charcoal material, and nipped gently at the material until her heard her moan beneath him. 

Yet it didn’t just stop there. She bucked her hips away from the bed and pressed against him, growling with the frustration that seeped through her body. How long had it been since they’d had any form of intimacy? Claire could hardly fathom the idea of counting the weeks without the pit of nausea forming in her stomach. Instead, her eyes fluttered closed and she focused on the feeling of his lips on her neck, nipping at her skin, and his hand reaching beneath her and fiddling with the clasp on her bra. 

“Do you need some help?” Laughter bubbled to the surface and Owen stilled in his movements, growling quietly but the soft noises that pulled from her were soon far too intoxicating to ignore as he too began to laugh, only stopping when he silenced himself against her lips, but busied himself with tugging the straps from her shoulders before he discarded the material haphazardly to the floor. 

A smile flooded his features — as if he’d successfully removed the first bra in human history — and he shook his head. “No, thank you, I’m quite proficient in what I do.” His lips raised at the corners to form a devilish smirk, and he couldn’t help but to pull back if only to admire her. 

“If you were _proficient_ , you wouldn’t be talking.” 

Famous last words. 

In the slowest, most daunting way possible, he tucked his head to kiss across her breasts, from one to the other before he paid close attention to the soft peaks, swirling his tongue around the sensitive nipples before he even thought of testing the waters. Gently, he nipped a mere inch away from her nipple and began leading back to the center, letting her moans and the way she grabbed at him lead him. 

As if he felt like they were working against the clock, Owen reached his hand between their bodies and skimmed over the front of the lace underwear, the same ones he had yet to thank her for purchasing. He’d never before moved so similarly to a sloth but knew that anything more had the ability to set her off. Carefully, as if one slip of the pin would cause the entire grenade to explode, he pushed at the material until her could gingerly stroke her, listening as she purred in his ear. 

“Stop.”

Much to his dismay, the single word had an involuntary action and he stilled until he wasn’t sure he had continued breathing. 

“Please, _please_ move your hand,” Claire whimpered, her breathing short and coming in shallow spurts as she nudged at his shoulder and the silence threatened to consume the space between them.

It had been far too easy for them to get carried away and to overlook the reasons why they hadn’t been so intimate in the weeks after, but Claire had sworn to herself that tonight, _tonight_ she would give it a chance. The entire drive home from the doctor’s office she’d spent talking herself up, reciting hopeful phrases that she thought had helped. Of course, Dr. Cantor hadn’t promised a miracle, but Claire had found herself praying for one anyways. 

Somewhere between her breath hitching so high in her throat that she felt dizzy and disoriented and pushing at his shoulder, Owen had effortlessly moved her underwear back into place and slid to her side, trying his best to give her room while not coming off as distant, so he draped his arm over her waist and tugged her closer to his chest until she was practically laying on top of him, free to push away at her own free will. 

They must’ve laid like that for an hour, not a word whispered between them, both hesitant at how the other would react if the truth was set free. But even Owen was happy with the progress they’d made, although he would never say such to Claire; to make her feel like a lesson in school would improve their situation. They were healing _together_ , and that was the most important thing to take from it. 

Instead, he traced his fingertips along her spine while he stared up at the ceiling, wondering if there was some larger world out there where, not in this life but another, they would’ve had their son. What would it be like, had they brought him home? Would they be spending nights like these together with a baby monitor perched on the nightstand, both waiting for their son to start wailing so they could fight over who would do the honors of picking him up out of his crib to swaddle him first while the other had to merely sit by and watch? 

“ _Owen_.” Her voice caught him between breaths and it took him a minute to realize Claire was cupping his chin, worry etched into the furrow between her eyebrows. 

How long had he spent daydreaming of a future they’d kissed goodbye? Shaking the thoughts from his mind as best as he could — when really he was simply pushing them aside to sort through another day — Owen pushed forward the most of a smile he could muster and tilted forward to kiss the very tip of her nose. “I’m sorry, I must’ve zoned out for a minute. Had you said something?” 

Hesitation clogged her throat and she swallowed thickly before she was able to speak. “I asked about Elise, you mentioned something about being on the phone with her when I got home?” 

Had he? 

Oblivious to the dumbfounded look that crossed his features, Claire laughed — she laughed as if the moments before hadn’t happened, as if she hadn’t stopped him moments before he elicited pleasured whimpers from her —  and made a hand motion of him going crazy. “Yeah, you did. I talked to her—”

Unable to let her finish, Owen sprang at the change and with widened eyes he gasped, “what’d she say?” 

“She let it slip that she’s been really craving chocolate lately, and I shrugged it off thinking that she’s just been stressed at work, and even she admitted to stress and being on her period, but do you think she’s actually pregnant?” 

 _She went as far to lie and say she’s on her period after she thought Claire had caught her redhanded._ He felt the anger rising in his veins and it took everything in him to not tell her, right then and there, that his sister was pregnant. _Pregnant_ , when they should be. When _he_ should still be a Father-To-Be, toting around the t-shirt that read the same, the one Claire had bought him when they reached the five-month mark.

“No, she’s not pregnant. Trust me, my parents would’ve said something if she were, my mom can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

Claire rolled impossibly closer to him before she slid her leg between his and curled her head to rest beneath his chin. While it may have felt strange to be getting closer to him, in a way there was peace in feeling his arms wrap around him. 

“Wouldn’t it be a piece of shit if the universe decided that Elise and Morgan would be parents before us?” Despite the weight that seemed strung to her heart, she was able to freely talk about it without tearing up, without her breath lodging so high in her throat that she could feel her heart beating between her temples. Before, Claire didn’t know how to talk about Henry without feeling the guilt and pain from losing him, but now felt like they could share memories of their short time with him, or even reminisce on the time she spent pregnant. 

But before she could even stop herself, Claire began to laugh quietly until she was hiccuping from the boisterous cackles. “They’re only twenty-four years old, Owen! They have all the time in the world to become pregnant, and there are _two_ of them. Between the two of them, one has to have a reliable uterus, but no, not me. Isn’t that unfair?” She didn't dare mention that she would never want to witness him as a pregnant woman. “I’m not getting younger, and it’s just unfair that the universe hates me enough to give us _this_ fate.”

The want to tell her about Elise’s secret had never been more dominant, raging through his blood along with the anger that he so badly wanted to direct at his sister. This was never meant to be his burden to bear; what had started out as trying to talk his sister down from the edge turned into a cascade of lies, and he knew it was only a matter of time until it caught up with them. 

No, it would catch up with _Elise,_ not him. It had never been his choice to lie for his sister, and when she had promised it wouldn’t be long before she unveiled the truth, well, it’d been long enough. She’d had too many chances to come clean, and he’d spent countless nights awake, wondering how bad the damage would be when the truth came to the surface. Would they survive another bomb dropping on their lives? 

Enough was enough.

Owen stroked his hand over the back of her head, smoothing down the stray strands of fire before he tucked his hand along the small of her back. It was now or never. “Claire, I need to tell you something.” 

Much to his surprise, Claire didn’t wait around to hear what he wanted to say and was already pushing herself up to her knees when he reached out for her hand. Whenever she was planning to go could wait; he had to tell her before he lost the courage, before the words gurgled in his throat and he lost the source of encouragement. Owen tugged on her wrist until he could plant a hand firmly around her waist, pulling her closer as her laughter cut through the calm of their bedroom. 

Claire flailed in protest of his grabbing hands and growled when he seemed to not be giving in. Just once, just one goddamn time did she want him to take this seriously. “No, no, no, wait, whatever you have to say, can it wait for just a second? Just until I tell you something that I’ve been waiting for a few days to say?” 

She seemed to wait until they both were able to come down from the high before she was laying with her head resting on his chest, Owen’s arms wrapped protectively around her, and for a single minute, the rest of the world was void; it was merely the two of them laying in the other’s embrace, and it was purely all that mattered. 

“Tell me what you wanted to say,” he kissed along the shell of her ear and his eyes fluttered closed, not that he could ever be tired; not when the nervous energy soaring through him was enough to elicit heart palpitations that were meticulously spaced thirty seconds apart. Plus, if she had some piece of good news, there was no way she would tell him after he drops the ‘Elise is pregnant’ bomb. 

Instead, Claire sighed quietly and shook her head, wishing herself into a world where she didn’t interrupt when they had a good moment going for them. Not that what she had was of any importance, but realized — much too late — that he wouldn’t stop questioning her until she gave in. 

“Honestly, it isn’t anything nearly as exciting as whatever you have planned to tell me, but I just wanted you to know that I’m still in our relationship for the long haul…” Her voice dropped off until she was staring down at her hands gathered in her lap, every ounce of her attention put into twisting around the beautiful engagement ring she’d been wearing for nearly a year, now. “I know that what we’ve been through has been complete and utter hell, not only for me but I know you’ve been put under the spotlight more than I really ever cared to recognize, but at the end of the day, I am still ungodly in love with you, and the thought of losing you? The thought of chasing you away? Those are the worst thoughts that I never want to have come true.” 

As terrible as he felt thinking it, Owen suddenly found himself wishing that he’d never taken Elise’s phone call, that he had never found out she was pregnant. At the moment where the two seams of his life were coming back together, he couldn’t even feel _good_ about his decision to protect his baby sister, because in the end _someone_ would end up hurt, and he knew that if the universe got its way, it would be Claire. 

So instead he pushed at the bile that rose in the back of his throat and shoved the words to the back of his mind, swearing to himself that he would not ruin this moment for Claire. Here she was, finally accepting that they could still make their relationship work, and he wouldn’t be the thing that came in the middle of it. He gripped the back of her head and pulled her closer into a soul-crushing kiss, tracing his tongue across her bottom lip until he sought out the silent permission, slipping into hers. 

While their evening may have slid to an abrupt halt hours earlier, they took their time finding a familiar rhythm and slowly began to count the steps it took to close the space between them, reconnecting on a new level with the promise of more nights spent listening to the rising tide within each other instead of simply staring at the full moon that could’ve been their relationship setting out to sea, an empty path between them.

[…]

“I swear to God, Elise, if you don’t tell her then I’m going to. I can’t keep letting this impact my relationship with Claire, not to mention my fucking mental health.” Owen growled beneath this breath when his sister reminded him to keep his voice down. God forbid his colleagues hear him talking about his _lesbian sister’s_ pregnancy. “It’s been _two months_ since you told me, which means you’re what? Closing in on four months pregnant? Claire and I booked our flights to Chicago so if you plan on _ever_ giving birth to this child, you might want to consider telling her at some point. Unless you plan on avoiding us the entire time we’re in the city?”

It wasn’t enough to just be upset with his sister; since she’d revealed that she was pregnant — something she had yet to tell their parents (or maybe that was just the story she was telling him) — Elise had been promising to tell Claire until that moment came and she made yet another excuse for why she couldn’t. Once, it was a rather grueling day at work and she didn’t have the energy, then next it was ‘bad timing’ when she called to chat with the two of them and Claire pulled away early to go to bed.

All the while, Claire was none the wiser to her sister-in-law’s pregnancy. 

“Would you just relax? I don’t want to tell her over the phone, Owen. This has gone on too long to break it over the phone while trying to keep you out of it.” 

Owen scoffed and slammed an open fist against the desk in front of him, earning a few odd stares in through his open office door. “You’re trying to keep me out of it? Maybe you should have thought about that before, but I really wanted to know how the hell have you spared me in any of this, Elise? Jesus, I love you, but I can’t believe that you’re honestly this naïve,” Owen paused, inhaling a shaky breath before he settled on one last piece of advice. “I’m not going to say another word to you about the issue because I’m tired of coming away from our conversations with his thick guilt in the back of my mind. I am _actively_ lying to Claire, you realize that, right? She’s wondered why you haven’t called, why there has been a distance between the two of you, and every time she has a question I have to lie. Not you, no, you’re not the one buffering the tension.

He wanted to throw every bit of it back in her face. The lies, the _pain_ and _grief_ that she made seem so genuine. He couldn’t help but to hate himself for being convinced that she was doing this on purpose when she was his — their — biggest supporter, but it was unnecessary for the pain to be drawn out. “Think about if it were you and Morgan in this situation, how would you feel lying to her for _two months straight?_ But it would never come to that because I would _never_ ask you to do that to Morgan. I would _never_ ask you to lie to her, so why you’re doing this to me is baffling, to say the least.

He was already on a roll and couldn’t find it in him to care about her feelings, not when she hadn’t bothered to find his in the mess. Sure, Elise had her reasons, but it was always an excuse when it came to his sister. Granted in the past he’d been on her side, but not now. Not after this had gone on for so long, not when she’d had plenty of opportunities to come out with the truth. 

“Owen, please—”

“No, Elise. I have to go because I need to be concentrating on work. Claire and I will be in Chicago next weekend, for the conference she was with the investors. It’s up to you if we’re going to see you or not.”

He didn’t give his sister another chance to state her case, one that had already been worn out, and instead hung up without as much as a goodbye, pocketing his phone immediately. For now, though, he had to focus on his relationship, the mending that was still to come, and the preparation that would be needed once Claire had her heart shattered again. 

Over the course of the following week that led up to their trip back home, Owen avoided and ignored Elise in the only way he knew how, playing it off as if he were suddenly working twenty-four hours a day. When Claire questioned the lack of her name popping up in their daily lives, including the how it seemed that Owen had stopped talking to his sister completely, he merely shrugged it off as a simple coincidence in their mismatched schedules and if they talked every day leading up to their arrival, what would they talk about once they saw each other again?

“Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so nervous. It’s hardly been nine months since you’ve seen Elise, I’m sure your sister hasn’t changed so vastly.” Claire laughed quietly to herself as they stepped off the plane and began on the route towards the taxi queue as their weekend stay in Chicago had already gotten off to a rocky start. 

Not only had they narrowly avoided missing their connecting flight out Boston, but when Elise had called early that morning and proclaimed over speaker-phone that she had _‘news’_ , Owen had held his breath for nearly a minute before she laughed and reminded them to bring heavier coats, it was going to be another cold weekend in the Windy City. Owen, however, knew she’d come desperately close to telling Claire the news and had merely backed out at the last minute. 

Needless to say, he had a few choice names for his sister in the moment. 

There had been at least a dozen times that morning, whether it was as they were pulling out of the driveway in the taxi that would take them to the airport, or when they were already tucked in their incredibly small seats on the plane, or even now, as they waited to be the next in line to get inside yet another taxi, that he could’ve told her. Owen could have come clean as to his part in the lies they’d built against Claire, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. None of it would matter because now he would be dealing with the aftermath; there would be no magical fix, no easy cure to avoid breaking her heart. 

“Are you going to zone out like that all weekend? I could’ve sworn you were asleep before me last night, did you just not sleep well?” A tight frown formed on her lips as she tried desperately to not reach out and press the back of her hand to his forehead, checking for the first sings of an illness. It would be just their luck to acquire one when this weekend home was a mix of both business and pleasure. “Or are you dreading the fact that we’ll be staying with Elise and Morgan instead of Barry? I know you really wanted to stay with him, but it sounds like he’s really hitting it off with this new ‘ _lady friend’_ of his.” She waggled her eyebrows in a joking manner, trying to tease the slightest laugh out of Owen. When he remained  stone-faced and resilient toward her charm, Claire sighed, “so that’s how today is going to be?” 

Maybe her fiancé thought she was completely oblivious to the world around them — or had her head jammed too far into the spine of her grandmother’s cookbook, searching out new recipes to add a flare to — but Claire observed more than he would ever give her credit for. Or, it was that he didn’t want to own up to whatever he’d been stressing about since she reminded him a week before that they had yet to book their tickets for the weekend they’d be sharing in Chicago. Claire had forever been trying to get Elise to open up to sharing if she knew what was going on in his head, and had even called their therapist to see if he’d been in for any appointments she didn’t know about, but even he was tight-lipped about it, reminding her that it was ‘doctor-patient confidentiality’ and gave the advice that _maybe_ she should seek out a conversation with Owen.

Maybe Doctor James needed to mind his own goddamn business. 

While she only was trying to look out for his well-being, Claire tried her best to not grill him on the look of pure and utter panic as they neared the couple’s apartment in the heart of downtown. Sure, she was just as nervous as he was to be back in their hometown, but she continued to remind herself that she was here for business and it came first. Family, as much as she loved them, would have to wait until the investors got off her back. 

That theory, however, went straight through the roof the moment the door opened to Elise and Morgan, huddled together with smiles plastered to their features, and an awaked silence hung between the four of them as they exchanged hugs and the ever-popular comment on her looks, as well as the dark circles painted beneath Owen’s eyes, but Claire couldn’t help but to feel the constant tug of tension that lingered over them. Maybe it was the cold shoulder Elise had been giving her since they arrived, or the way his sister had practically scurried off to bed immediately after the four of them finished dinner that same night, but she didn’t dare bring it up until they were settled in bed at the end of an exhausting day. 

Claire should’ve been ashamed that she faked a yawn to get herself out of an awkward evening of sitting in the living room among the other two women, but she wasn’t. She was, however, freezing cold and used it to her advantage once Owen had made his way upstairs a while later with tired eyes and sluggish movements. 

She waited until he was settled in bed and had already spent five minutes adjusting to find the _perfect_ spot before she eyed him. Did he know something that she didn’t? “Did Elise and Morgan seem awfully quiet at dinner, or am I just reading into this too much?” Whether or not he realized it, Owen had never come out and denied that something was wrong with Elise. He’d always shrugged his shoulders or brushed it off as if Elise was just going through a phase. 

“I think that you’re just tired and you’re _clearly_ hallucinating,” Owen rolled towards her with a quiet smirk pressed to his lips and reached out to hook an arm over her side, pressing his hand flat against the small of her back and tugged Claire closer. The slight smirk grew until he was chuckling. “I think that you could quiet your thoughts and focus your concentration on something a bit more… _particular._ ”

“Particular, or peculiar? Because they mean different things, love.” Nonetheless, Claire hadn’t missed the part where he casually pointed to his lips, and out of the goodness of her heart wasn’t going to make him beg. Not tonight, at least. Instead, tired of talking and beginning to believe that she _was_ hallucinating, Claire reached out and cupped his chin, lifting his lips to meet hers. She kissed him gently and tried to pour her unspoken thoughts into the way her lips moved against his and slowly snaked a hand beneath his grey henley, but not before Owen caught he wrist. 

“We are _not_ having sex in my sister’s guest bedroom,” he muttered against her lips, but didn’t move to pull her wrist away. Instead, after he paused for a moment, inhaling sharply, he nudged her hand closer to his waist and pressed his lips hard against hers, searching for the freedom he so badly needed. Freedom from the weight of the secret he withheld from Claire, and freedom from the pain he knew that would eventually come. 

From what she could interpret merely from his body language, Claire drummed forward in pushing her hand past the waistband of his boxers, gently scratching her nails against his toned stomach, curving over the indent in his skin, tracing the muscles as they rippled beneath the surface. 

But, Claire wasn’t going to give into him; not when he’d already claimed that neither of them were going to get what they wanted, not over the course of the weekend, that is. Instead, she pulled back and leaned into kiss him, laughing quietly at his deep, aggressive groan when it dawned on him what she was doing. “Yes, I’m evil, it’s something I already knew,” she smirked, pressing a hand to his chest. “Now, go to bed, you look like you could use the sleep.” Without giving him the opportunity for him to rein her back in with the bargain of _‘quiet sex_ ’ (as if that could be a thing for them) Claire flipped onto her stomach and buried her face into the feather pillow, mumbled a soft ‘goodnight’, and was asleep within minutes.

[…]

“I need you to listen to me, if only for a moment before you start yelling back and forth again.” Claire stood at the head of the conference room, staring down the table with investors seated on either side. They were the same who had been vital in the building of the bakery in D.C., and she hated to admit that, without them, she wasn’t sure it would’ve ever happened. “I realize that, without the support of my staff, there is no way _we_ would have the bakery that exists today, but I am not willing to add _dinner_ dishes into the mix because I am a _pastry chef_ and I do not specialize in pasta. Although, I do enjoy eating them.” Claire gave a cheeky smirk before she stepped back from the table, reaching for the mug of coffee she’d brought with her — coffee that was far too strong for her liking.  

While it may have seemed like a ridiculous idea, and she might’ve considered it at one point — if only for the new patrons it would bring to the forefront — she had ultimately scratched the idea one night while discussing it with Owen. He made a point; she _excelled_ in the delicious pastries she created without breaking a sweat, and to transform the bakery into a _diner_ would take away from the aesthetic atmosphere. 

That same night, Claire had baked him a dozen different types of sweets for him to indulge in, all before he devoured _her_. That was merely a week before she discovered being pregnant, and it was needless to say everything had changed since then, but she had always kept her promise (and because she’d signed papers stating such) to not change the menu to include lunch or even dinner items.

The meeting — an hour total that could’ve been done over Skype instead of forcing her to fly to Chicago for the weekend — was over in plenty of time to meet up with Elise, Morgan and Owen for brunch at one of the newer restaurants in the area. Instead of driving the short distance, she used the time to clear her mind as she walked from the conference hall at one of the nearby hotels to the brewery. They hadn’t had much time to speak of it the night before, mainly because she’d fallen asleep merely minutes after they both decided to call it a night, but Claire felt off about being under his sister’s roof. Maybe it had something to do with how she was exhausted and that alone had spread an awkward tension like the next plague, or was it that she hadn’t exactly been in a talkative mood the previous night. 

Despite the chill in the late winter air, Claire would never complain about walking, even if the look on Owen’s face spoke another reaction as she stepped inside the warm building. She stepped past the hostess’ stand and motioned towards the three sitting at a high-top table and the woman let her go through. It wasn’t a second after she’d stepped up to the table that Owen had reached for both of her hands, clasping them between his own.

“You walked here, didn’t you?” While she could tell he wanted to come across in a stern manner, he simply wasn’t. Owen had every reason to worry over her; hell, there were still mornings where she had to use the wheelchair because it was just going to be another ‘ _bad day’,_ and she was never guaranteed that she would have full use of her legs. On any day her body could seek vengeance and she would be in the same pit she had been in after the accident. Regardless, she had been the woman who had spent every free morning for much of her adolescence and adulthood going on runs. There was something about it that was so freeing; it enabled her to clear her mind and to put to rest whatever plagued her. Now, when she had every reason to gather enough good juju each morning to keep herself on two feet. 

 _That_ was Owen’s biggest fear, even if he would never speak those words. 

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” she smirked before stepping to the side to greet Morgan with a gentle hug and then Elise. But when she moved to step up to give the younger woman a hug, it seemed as if she was in a different world, her eyes glossy and uninterested in the fact that Claire was standing _right there_. Eventually, she took a step back and moved to sit next to Owen, flashing him a concerned gaze that he merely shot down. 

“How’d the meeting go?” While Owen didn’t want to draw attention to himself or Elise to give away the fact that they’d fought the entire morning about her pregnancy — or how embarrassed he was for doing it in front of Morgan — he knew that he wasn’t going to hide it, not when she could read him like a poorly-kept secret, or an open book. Either, really. 

Claire rolled her eyes with ease as she took her seat, drumming her fingers against the wooden tabletop. “Oh, you know, Max is still pushing the idea of having pasta served, but I think I finally got through to him that I am not a pasta chef. I am a pastry chef, I bake things that have delicious fruits and decadent cheeses in them and _damnit_ I will not be staining my aprons with tomato sauce!” Laughter seeped from her as she looked from Morgan to Elise and back, taking note that no one had drinks in front of them. “Were you all waiting for me to order drinks, too?”

As if she could summon the devil with the mere mention, their waitress made his way over a minute later and offered a beer and wine menu, which Owen gladly accepted and was the first to order a draft, passing it off to Claire. Despite the medications she was on and the advice from Dr. Cantor to limit herself to the amount of alcohol she drank — as well as any other decent tasting food that she needed to use _self-control_ when eating — she could hardly bother to care while on _vacation_. Plus, a single glass of red wine wouldn’t hurt; it would also lessen her chances for a heart attack fifty years in the future. 

When it came time for Elise to give her drink order, Morgan merely handed the menu back to the waiter without even offering it to her wife, and Elise shot back with simply wanting ice water with a lemon wedge. Not only did this raise the red flags in Claire’s mind, but when she opened her mouth to speak, she felt Owen’s hand find the small of her back. Almost as if he was silently offering her support, or comforting her. 

“Elise, don’t you want the sangria you always have?” Granted, when they lived in D.C. before, they hadn’t had much time to go out for drinks together, but Claire had learned over the course of Elise’s visit for her baby shower that the younger woman could certainly hold her own when it came to wine. “They have their signature Sunday Sangria, are you—”

Elise shrugged and glanced away from Claire’s questioning and concerned gaze, until she was pulled back by her brother clearing his throat. “I just don’t feel like it, I have to work later tonight, and—”

It was the calm before the storm. It felt as if the entire room around them stopped existing; there was no noise coming from the surrounding tables, no voices, no sounds of laughter or the few children who were sharing a nice breakfast with their family before the afternoon hours came and the doors were shut to those who weren’t of legal age to drink. Claire felt the back of her throat swell with panic, a reminder of the pain she felt the morning they lost Henry. 

Owen pried open a clenched fist before he slammed it flat against the table, the booming noise echoing around their table and jolting both Morgan and Claire, who turned their attention to him, while Elise continued to stare straight ahead as if she’d suddenly tuned out the rest of the world, pretending it no longer existed.

“Just tell her the fucking truth, Elise! I’m tired of this, tell her or I will, goddamnit!” Oblivious to the scene they had started to create, Owen’s eyes were wild as he gripped the edges of the table and locked in on Elise. “What the fuck are you doing? Speak, damnit. Say something, because you’re not making any of this better by sitting there with that—”

“ _Stop.”_ Morgan growled and reached out to press a firm hand against Owen’s forearm. “Lower your damn voice and stop yelling at my wife. I get it, she’s your sister, but that doesn’t give you the all clear to be screaming at her in public.”

Elise turned to Claire with tears in her eyes, threatening to break over the edge, and held tightly to the table; for strength, for comfort, for the firm promise that this would not be the last time she ever saw her brother and Claire although her heart told her otherwise. “I’m pregnant.” Point blank. There was no remorse lingering in her voice, no regret for the pain that would be caused despite the tears that began to cascade down her tanned cheeks. 

There it was. The initial moment of the accident, the moment the bullet struck and Claire remembered not feeling anything, as if she were numb from the sudden shock to her entire system. It was the foreign body that caused distress, forced her system to go into attack, and it was the same that was happening now. Her body imitated the moments after giving birth to Henry, restricted her breathing even as she wheezed loudly, gasping for air. “How long?” She managed as she stared down at the table, never once lifting her gaze. “How long have you known?” 

“Claire, please,” Elise begged, reaching out to grasp the woman’s wrist, coming short when Claire yanked her hand back at the last moment. “I only found out the day before you were admitted into the hospital, and by the time I talked to Owen I—”

Before she could force herself to listen to anything else Elise had to say, Claire clenched her eyes shut and reached over to rest her hand against Owen’s leg and began tapping softly, “can we go home, now?” 

There was nothing anyone could say to keep him planted in the seat across from a sister he no longer recognized when the woman he loved clearly couldn’t handle the pain that was being forced upon her. While he believed that she was one of the strongest — if not _the_ strongest — people he knew, there was nothing that would keep him from trying his best to protect her. Owen first stood and gathered their coats before he offered a hand to Claire and pulled her to his side and wrapped an arm around her before they began to walk towards the exit, not bothering to look back. He knew Elise wouldn’t chase after them, not when she thought she wasn’t in the wrong, and there was no way Morgan would leave her side. 

Once they were outside the building and he took a quick look at Claire, he could tell she was merely minutes from breaking at the seams. “We just have to walk home and then it’ll be you and me, okay?” He received a stiff nod but didn’t try to push further. He knew she wasn’t okay, and it was pointless to ask only so Claire would feel pressured to answer. Instead, he kept her close to his side and walked briskly, desperate to make it home before Morgan and Elise. 

He was comforted by his ability to still cash in on his good karma when they made it home without a sign of his sister or her wife, hoping that they realized that neither would want to see them for a while and would stay away…even though it was _their_ home. As they made their way inside, Owen urged Claire to head upstairs, promising that he was going to grab a warm blanket and he’d be up soon. 

He was furious, and if it weren’t for taking care of Claire, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to trust or control himself. Clearly he would never do anything to hurt his sister or Morgan — he would _never_ lay a hand on either woman — but he couldn’t promise that he wouldn’t be destructive towards their home, especially in the form of breaking a few dishes. Owen made good on his promise and appeared minutes later to find Claire situated at the end of the bed, sitting with her legs perched on the edge of the bed, knees tugged to her chest, and her face buried in her arms. After flipping the lock on the door, he stepped towards her and fanned the blanket out and draped it around her shoulders, tucking it close to her side. 

“Baby,” he whispered, dropping to kneel in front of her and lifting a hand to rest on either side of her waist. “We can stay somewhere else tonight. I want you to be comfortable and I know that staying here will only be the opposite.” He kissed the crown of her head and waited for an answer, sighing with relief when she nodded. Of course, there was no telling what would be said when they suddenly showed up on the doorstep, but Owen had a good idea that it was the right place to go. “You just…you relax while I get our bags packed, and then I’ll call for a cab.” 

He worked diligently to pack away the few things they’d used in the short time of being back in Chicago and ensured they had everything they needed before he called for the cab. With every movement he made around the room, Owen never went more than a minute without glancing over at Claire, but each time she had hardly moved, or she reached to clutch at the edges of the blanket, tugging it tightly around herself. 

Once the cab had arrived and he ushered her out of the bedroom and downstairs, Owen opened the door and his jaw dropped. Standing next to the taxi, talking to the driver was Elise as Morgan stood silently at her side. From the angered look on the driver’s face, Owen could tell Elise was trying to get him to drive away, much to his dismay, but he would certainly be collecting his money. 

“Where are you going?” Elise motioned wildly to the bags he held in each hand and shifted her gaze to Claire. “Was this _your_ doing? Where the fuck do you think you’re going to go tonight?” She shoved away from the cab and began walking towards Claire, growling with intense anger when Owen stepped in front of her. She reached out and latched onto his arm, digging her nails into the arm of his coat as tears threatened at the back of her eyes.

“Karen would never dream of doing this to me!” Claire yelled, her voice breaking and giving way to her crumbling facade. “She would _never_ keep such a secret from me because she was too much of a coward to tell me the moment it happened.”

“ _Elise_ ,” he hissed, “I suggest that you let go and move, unless you want to pay the bill for this cab.” While he tried not to smile, Owen couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at the corners of his lips, and it only widened when his sister moved from their path. “We chose to come stay with you, which gave you the perfect opportunity to tell the truth. What did you do? You stalled, you didn’t even reach for the opportunity until it was forced on you, and I bet if Claire hadn’t caught you in the midst of your lie you would’ve never told her. So, on that note, don’t you dare stand here and think you have the right to tell us where to go.” When he took a step forward, he felt the slightest tug and when he peered over his shoulder he saw Claire clutching at his coat as if she were hanging on for dear life.

He passed of the bags to the driver when he offered to put them in the trunk, and then helped Claire settle into the backseat before he shut the door and turned to meet his sister’s glare. “I’m sorry that it’s coming down to this, but she’s hurting and I won’t force her to stay somewhere she isn’t comfortable. And where Claire goes, I’m going, too.” With a passing glance to Morgan, who stood with her chin tucked to her chest and one hand pressed to her mouth, Owen rounded the back of the car and got in on the other side.

There was no use in asking her if she was okay, not when one look at her said it all. Despite the full night’s sleep, the black shadows had found their way beneath her eyes and her frown seemed as if it would continue for miles if allowed. Gingerly, he reached across the seat and rested his hand on her thigh and felt her shiver beneath his touch. She hadn’t flinched, no, but it certainly didn’t help him decipher if she _wanted_ to be touched. 

Minutes later, after much consideration, she slipped her hand beneath his and laced their fingers together. As much as Claire wanted to scream at him, wanted to _hate him_ for keeping this secret from her, there were a dozen more reasons that she couldn’t, the first being that she’d done the same. She had asked Elise to keep a secret from him until she was ready to come clean to Owen, but it wasn’t a _four month long_ secret. She needed the comfort he could offer; she was desperate to be wrapped in his embrace and to let the silent screams escape from her lungs, taking with it the pieces of her soul that were no longer viable. 

They remained that way until the taxi pulled up to the much larger house, one that was only seen outside of the city limits, and Owen eagerly paid the fare before he got himself and Claire out of the backseat. He took both suitcases and they started up the walkway to the front door, it opening far before they reached the steps that climbed to the porch. 

“ _Claire_?” Karen’s calm voice pulled her out of the dazed fog she’d been captured in, and as the younger woman looked up to see her sister standing at the open door, her eyes began to fill with tears. Karen descended the stairs and within seconds had her sister wrapped in a warm embrace, one hand pressing on the back of her head, the other passing along he spine. “It’s okay, everything will be okay now.” 

Karen knew she hadn’t received the ‘Sister of the Year Award’ when they lost their mother, considering she was already out on her own  and there had never really been a time in the course of their lives when it was brought up. Not when she married Scott, or when their blissful happily ever after ended in tears. When she married Alecs, Karen and Claire decided to put the past behind them, especially when they were able to give Claire everything she had ever wanted: another nephew to spoil endlessly. 

When she pulled back to smile down softly at her younger sister, the woman she saw so much of their mother in, Karen kissed her forehead and nodded towards the house. “Come on, it’s cold out here and I have a fire going inside.” Karen passed a quiet look towards Owen as he trailed behind only to shut the door, turning around to find a quiet Gray standing beside him. 

Over the nearly two years that they’d officially been together, Owen had only been around her family a handful of times, most of which consisted in the weeks after he returned from Quantico training. Now that they were separated by endless miles and too many states, FaceTime was the most ideal way to connect, and Owen had made quite the impact in her nephew’s lives, especially Gray. While they were a blended family and Gray couldn’t connect to Alecs in the ways Karen had hoped for, Sunday night FaceTime was the perfect way to end the week.

“Hey, buddy,” Owen leaned down but didn’t take his eyes off Claire until Karen had led her out of the foyer and upstairs to the guest bedroom. From the times he’d been around Claire’s nephews, he knew better than to trust a quiet Gray, but the blonde haired, blue-eyed took on a different mood now. He was somber, walking with his shoulders hunched forward and his gaze stuck on the floor beneath him. 

Gray pouted his bottom lip and shook his head. “Is Aunt Claire going to be sad forever?” He reached down for Owen’s hand and grabbed onto his fingers, tugging him towards the kitchen with the promise of an idea to make her feel better. 

Karen could hear her son and Owen talking downstairs and knew he was in good hands, enough so that she were able to focus her attention on Claire instead. Oh how she wanted to be able to take that pain away, erase it and rid of it once and for all. But, within the same moment, she wasn’t able to completely understand the pain that Claire felt. She’d never had to suffer through the loss of a child, and wasn’t sure she’d have the same strength that her sister did through the ordeal. 

“Please, say something,” Karen pleaded as she sat next to her on the bed, continuing the soft motions against her back, watching as her sister visibly shut down beside her. 

Claire inhaled shakily and reached for her sister’s hand, slipping hers beneath as she squeezed gently. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, but it isn’t fair. She shouldn’t be able to be a mother, not before me. Owen and I had it all figured out and now it feels like our lives are going to collapse again.” She desperately tried to hold back the tears as she told Karen about the horrors of discovering that Elise was pregnant. “I feel like she told _our_ child.”

“Oh sweetie,” Karen reached around to cradle the side of Claire’s head, gently bringing her closer until Claire was able to rest her head against her sister’s shoulder. While she didn’t know the same pain, she had felt _pain_ in her life before; she knew the pain of losing someone who is so visibly loved. “You and Owen have worked so hard to fight your way to the surface, and I doubt if you’re going to sink back down. The chains have been un-cuffed, there are no weights holding you down. Nothing Elsa—”

“—Elise…"

Karen blushed, “right, Elise. There is nothing she can say that should ever change that. I don’t know the specifics, but I do know that if she loves you as much as I think she does, then she knows she hurt you, although there were plenty of ways to avoid doing so.”

As Owen walked down the length of the hallway, hearing his fiancées soft sobs escaped from beneath a collapsed chest, he was forced to linger by the open door until a good point came to find his way inside. Except, when Gray came running down the hall only a minute later, a soft smile fell way to his lips just as he saw Karen turn and motion him inside. 

“I’ll be back, okay? I’m going to go make sure Gray isn’t causing trouble out there.” Karen kissed her temple before she pushed herself to stand and walked out of the room, patting Owen on the shoulder as they passed. 

He didn’t hesitate to take up his previous stance from earlier, dropping in front of her as she remained on the edge of the bed, gently resting a hand on either thigh. “Can I help you get comfortable? You can’t be cozy in these thick tights, so why don’t we find your warm pajama pants and you and I can crawl back into bed, yeah?” 

Claire nodded and parted her lips to tell him she was sorry, or that she loved him — _something_ that would show remorse for losing their child — but all that came out was babbling of words that made no sense when put together. She sat still and lifted her arms when he instructed, shivering until he tugged his thick henley over her small frame, and stood only when he asked so he could repeat the same with her pants, dressing her in something much warmer. “Now for the blanket,” he reached around to the side of the bed and pulled back the comforter to drape over her shoulders while he pressed his lips to the side of her head nearest her temple, but continued to pepper kisses across her skin, meeting the corner of her chin and the tip of her nose, kissing away the tears that fell onto her cheeks. 

“Can you scoot back so that I can get in next to you?” He kept his voice low and gentle, trying his best not to startle her in the stark difference of the silent room, only filled with her shallow breaths and his sighs. Owen kept a close eye on her as he peeled his own clothes off and stripped down to his boxers before thinking second and slipping into a pair of warm sweats.

Carefully, Owen crawled to the top of the bed and sat behind Claire and tucked his arms around her before pulling her back to rest against his chest. It wasn’t enough to simply have his arms around her; he wanted to touch her, wanted to be able to _comfort_ her. Merely, he rubbed her arms in slow, lengthy motions and waited for her to relax into his embrace. Her head was heavy against his chest, but not uncomfortably so, just enough that he knew she wasn’t holding back; she wouldn’t try to flee. 

“Why didn’t she tell me?” 

Her voice appeared out of nowhere, and when he opened his eyes — _did I fall asleep?_ — Claire had turned in his arms and was resting with her head against his chest, her body pressed against his. It took only a minute to realize she was talking about Elise, and the events of the morning came crashing back. Despite the fact that he’d known about Elise’s pregnancy, it still hurt. It wrecked his hope of ever being a father, but most of all it brought him reeling back to the moment they’d been told Henry wasn’t alive. For two months, while he was making sure Claire made it out of the pain and torture alive, he hadn’t taken care of himself, too. He’d put every bit of effort into helping her heal, which he would never regret, but now it that same pain was crushing his soul. 

Unsure what it was, but it suddenly dawned on him that the mug of water he’d put in the microwave to heat was still waiting downstairs and he growled a few curses beneath his breath. “I’m so sorry, I need to go get the water, but just give me a minute and I’ll be back, alright?” He sighed with relief when she pushed forward the slightest smile and rolled to the side to enable him out of the bed.

When she heard footsteps padding back into the room merely seconds later, Claire picked her head up from the pillow and looked to the door, surprised to see an anxious looking Gray staring down at the T-Rex plush he held by the leg. “Aunt Claire?” His small voice was unusual for the five year-old who was usually so vibrant and full of life. When they FaceTimed at least once a week, sometimes more, Claire could hardly get a word in with Zach or Karen because of Gray; for being five, he had so much to talk about. Apparently more happened now in Pre-K than when she was in.

“Yeah, buddy, come here.” She pushed herself to sit up against the mound of pillows — making note to steal one to take on the plane before they flew home the next morning —and patted the empty space next to her. Gray scrambled his way to the bed and catapulted himself onto the mattress before settling in next to her, making himself comfortable as he laid his head on the pillow next to hers. Silently, he held up the plush dinosaur he brought with him and shook it at her, making his legs flail in all different directions. “This is Trevor,” he spoke with a slight lisp that Claire had always found to be adorable, and nonetheless did not stop him. “He’s always really _really_ happy, and he makes Mommy smile when she and Daddy fight.” He rattled on about the dinosaur and his various jobs; he used to be a fire-fighter against the fire-breathing dragons but got tired of his job and felt it was only right to retire, or as Gray explained, he was too old to keep working. 

Claire tried her best to listen to him explain all the ins and outs of being a dinosaur, how terrible it was to try and pick up his room or make his bed with such tiny arms, which is why Gray did everything for him. “And now he doesn’t work no more so he goes around makin’ people happy and smile!” Trying to hold the dinosaur in his small hand, he pushed him over to rest against Claire’s neck and made a kissing noise, “d’you feel better now? You can hold him, if you want, he works better when you hold him.”

She nodded silently before she took Trevor and held him close to her chest. Before she could say another word, she tried to ease herself down on the bed so she could see his little face and trace his features with her gaze, smiling when they were inches from each other, and he reached out to rest his open hand against her cheek. Gray didn’t move for several minutes and merely laid next to her, dragging his small thumb in smooth lines across her cheek, never stalling in the simple movement. 

“Don’t cry, Aunt Claire, everything will be ‘kay…” His soft voice rose from tucked beneath her chin and Claire lifted her hand to the back of his head, threading her fingers through his long blonde locks, thankful that Karen was the type of mother who let her children express themselves. Even if that meant her five year-old son had shaggy hair. 

They laid there like that until she’d lost track of time and she could hear his even breaths warm against her neck. She couldn’t help but to wonder if this was how Henry would have felt in a few years time. Would he have grown to be the spunky, vivacious five year-old that Gray was, or more quiet and reserved as Zach when he was the same age, content to play by himself or quietly watch a movie.

For what felt like hours later, Karen tiptoed into the room with Owen at her heels and peeked to see Claire still awake, although she could hear her son’s soft snore, gentle and calming like listening to the rain on a tin roof. “I’m going to take him because I have another boy who wants to lay in here with you,” she nodded over her shoulder to Owen, as if Claire wasn’t certain of who she was regarding.  Gently, she slid her arms beneath the sleeping boy and lifted him, passing a soft smile at her sister before she left the room, shaking her head when Owen offered to help. “Go hold your woman, instead,” she whispered, but not quietly enough that Claire wasn’t able to hear. 

He peeled back the corner of the sheets and slid into bed next to her, but he didn’t speak, he didn’t say a single word. Owen realized that there were no words she was expecting to hear, but that wasn’t true for him. He needed to hear himself apologize for the wrong that had been done over the past months, and the secrets he kept from her when he should’ve confided those thoughts in her. And he needed to hear her accept his apology, but only to forgive him if she truly could.

Just when he thought he’d convinced himself to keep his mouth shut and to just revel in the feeling of having her close, that pieces of rational thought were let go. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, trailing a shaking hand up her spine to tangle into her hair, desperate to hold her close. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t tell you, all I wanted was to keep you safe. You were doing so well handling the grief of Henry and I knew that this would crush your soul. I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t tell you. I just couldn’t bring myself to hurt you again.”

Claire was desperate to be mad at someone and had convinced herself, for the first time, that if she were able to hurt someone else it would alleviate the pain that throbbed through her entire body. And, while she wanted to cause the same pain to Elise that she felt palpable in her veins, she knew that it wasn’t really what she wanted. Sure, maybe she wanted the other woman to consider her side or to at least acknowledge that she was in the wrong, Claire would never be able to wish that on someone she considered _family,_ even if it weren’t official.

“No, no, no,” she leaned to press her lips into his hair, trying to consider anything she could say that would make this disappear for him. “I know you didn’t want to hurt me, and you were only trying to look out for my mental health.” It was something she truly believed; Owen hadn’t kept this from her in a malicious act. He wasn’t gaining anything from lying to her, and for that she accepted his apology. But, she couldn’t help to wonder how he thought she was going to react _if_ he had told her. It was a loaded question and she didn’t feel right asking him, not when he wasn’t in the state to divulge in hours of heart-warming conversation that would take crawling through the mud to archive. 

All it took was the first tear to roll from his cheek and drop onto her chest for Claire’s heart to swell in her chest, restricting her lungs from inhaling due to the narrow space inside the cavity. She didn’t try to stop him, didn’t coo and beg for him to smile, because she knew it wasn’t what he needed. He didn’t need for the sunshine to beam through the sliver in the curtains, or for her to be spitting rainbows at him. What he did need, what she was _sure_ of, was to heal.

 _Heal_. He needed to heal. 

Her heart dropped straight into the pit of her stomach when she thought back to the weeks before and how there had seemed to be something off balance in their lives. While she was working her way up from rock bottom, Owen had never hit his. He’d been worrying about her every second of the day — even went to the point of taking off work to be with her — and had she ever once stopped to ask him how he’d been doing? “Is this why you haven’t been acting yourself lately?” Gently, Claire pushed a hand into his thick, blonde curls before settling at the back of his neck, pulling him as close as she possibly could. 

“I’m going to fix this,” she whispered against his skin, peppering soft kisses to his temple just as he had done a thousand times for her. It was no longer about who had endured the most hurt or had suffered the greatest loss. It wasn’t about Claire being miraculously healed by some extraterrestrial force and being level-headed and at peace with whatever  monster took their son from them. No; now it was about helping the one person she loved the most in the world to be right in his own mind, and to move past the pain that was splitting the road that led beyond the pain. With another soft kiss pressed against his brow, Claire tugged the sheet until they were in a cocoon and closed her eyes, hoping he would soon follow suit. “We’re going to be okay, you’ll see.” 

[…]

Over the course of the week after they returned from Chicago, Claire and Owen both decided to take the week off work to settle back into some semblance of a routine. It had been a goofy idea that had spurred into the back of his mind on the plane home, and once Claire caught wind of it, there was no backing down. They hadn’t been on solid land for more than ten minutes before Owen had already secured a week off with the added bonus of vacation pay.

When she woke on Friday morning to an empty bed, Claire slid her hand across the mattress and felt the chill of the sheets tickling against her palm and silently cursed Owen for deciding to go into work. 

“He couldn’t have just taken the last day of our stay-cation and enjoyed it with us, could he?” Claire frowned down at Echo only to laugh moments later when the golden lab began whimpering, obviously sad that her dad wouldn’t be around. She laughed to herself but didn't linger in bed, desperate to be dressed in something warm without any skin showing for the bitter winter air to nip at. 

Once she’d grabbed her long house-coat and slid into a pair of furry slippers in the shape of dinosaur claws — a Christmas present from Gray the year before — she padded out into the kitchen for a cup of coffee when she spotted the reason her personal space heater had left their bed far too soon. 

Standing in the middle of their kitchen was someone Claire particularly had no interest in seeing, but she had no reason to be rude towards Morgan. Although, that didn’t exactly mean she needed a reason to come off as uptight. Sure, she didn’t exactly know where the other woman stood in the drama or if she was involved at all. Which, Claire could only assume she was; hell, she was married to Elise, and Claire had a hard time believing that there wasn't a point where Elise had mentioned that she had guilted her own brother into keeping such a secret. Which made Claire also wonder where their parents stood on the secret? Surely they had to know, unless Elise had made the decision to keep them out of the loop, too. 

“What are you doing here?” The ice laced into her voice couldn’t have been more distinct, and Claire realized then that, until Morgan made her intentions known, Claire wouldn’t be letting her guard down. Not when her fiancé looked awfully chummy with the other woman and that alone made her blood boil. _This is not the way you’re supposed to act towards someone who took our chances of having a child away_ , she wanted to scream. 

Until that moment it was clear her presence wasn’t known, because even Owen’s expression held a look of surprise when he pivoted around and smiled softly at her, rambling off a soft _‘morning babe_ ’ as he backed to the counter, allowing Claire to join in on their powwow. 

Morgan clasped both hands behind her back — the most _open_ she felt she could look in terms of body language — and stared straight ahead at Claire. Maybe it was something she admired about the other woman; Morgan and Elise were two peas in a pod until it came to being forward. Elise was blunt and unruly while Morgan took other’s feelings into account _before_ speaking. 

“I’m sure I’m the last person you want to see here inside your home,” she sighed as Claire nodded, “but I had to come because I needed you to hear _our_ side.” As much as she wanted to run and hide, to pretend as if she’d never booked a flight against her wife’s wishes and fly to D.C. to explain their side of the story, Morgan knew she had to. In the mere few days since Owen and Claire had left, she saw a new side of Elise. She wasn’t as outgoing as the woman she’d fallen in love with, and whenever something was brought up about the pregnancy she acted disinterested. 

“Claire, I know you’re hurt but Elise’s decision to keep the pregnancy from you, but she truly had your best intentions at heart when she asked Owen to keep the pregnancy from you. And it obviously wasn’t mean to last this long but, from what she told me, Owen kept telling her how great you were doing and the strides you were taking.” She paused and glanced over at Owen, who gave a soft nod to continue. “She didn’t want you to be shattered when you found out, but there was no place to stop. There was no ‘pull over here’ because the road was too long and it seemed like the secrets would never stop.”

Claire didn’t want to take part in this. She didn’t need to stand here while Morgan explained why Elise decided to keep the pregnancy from her; not when she should be hearing it from Elise herself. But, on the other hand, how would she tell Morgan that she could shove it when Claire was unsure what the woman’s involvement was? She’d flown far enough to say everything in person and, for that, Claire forced herself to stand still.

“Before you were pregnant, you and Owen asked Elise if she’d consider carrying a child for you so you could start a family of your own, and I just want you to know that the option is still there. Elise and I have—”

Claire scoffed loudly and slapped both hands against her thighs while shaking her head. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me? How long has this been going on? How long have you been leading me on, making me think that you’d still be here when we wanted to try for another baby?”

“ _Claire_ ,” Owen hissed, reaching across the small distance to rest an open hand against her bicep, frowning when he felt her muscles flinch, “please just listen?” 

She didn’t _want_ to listen, not when she and Owen had talked about this, about how right now maybe just wasn’t the right time. The night before they’d fallen asleep talking about their options, revisiting the conversation after nearly four months since Henry’s birth, and this time it was Claire who had brought up the idea of adoption, or trying for surrogacy. Except now that Morgan stood in front of them, begging for forgiveness and offering the one thing she and Elise could offer, Claire wanted no part in it. 

Morgan swallowed thickly and tried to build the courage to continue when every sense in her body told her to take Claire’s answer as a joint decision and to flee. Although, it was clear once Owen moved closer to Claire and eventually wrapped his arm around her waist that it was alright to continue, but not before she turned her attention to Claire. “I know it won’t mean a single ounce coming from me, but I cannot tell you how sorry Elise is for lying to you, and she didn’t ask me to say that, but I felt compelled to. And, there’s more. I didn’t just come here to tell you that Elise is sorry,” she laughed quietly, reaching up to run a hand through her jet-black hair, “Elise and I have talked about it, and if you’re still willing to try, we want — _I_ want — to carry the baby for you. That is, if you’ll let me.”

[…]

The weeks after Sarah Grace’s birth were some of the most challenging in their house. Claire and Owen tried to avoid the topic at all costs which was bitterly painful when pictures of his sister and their growing family were plastered along Facebook. It wasn’t as if it was the first time they’d seen their niece, no. It was merely minutes after she was welcomed into the world when Morgan texted Claire a picture with the caption, _‘she can’t wait to meet her Aunt and Uncle!’_

Owen had begged Claire to not respond; he didn’t want to open the lines of communication between Elise and himself. He’d tried a hundred times to explain to their parents that they just weren’t ready to make up, that Elise had put them through hell, and they would come to terms with it all in their own time. For the first time over the course of his entire life, Owen felt the wrath that his parents could hold over him. They transformed from the loving, supportive parents who had practically offered their help in every way they could throughout every pivotal point in his life to letting him know that what _he_ was doing, it was wrong, and they disapproved. 

Owen only lasted three months before he was compelled to reach out to Elise. He wasn’t sure he could forgive her so soon for making the choice to force him to keep her secret, but he wanted to try. Claire had come to terms with what Elise had done and, once she told Owen that she too had asked Elise to keep a secret for her, she could no longer hold that grudge against his sister. When he was ready to forgive, so was she. 

Two months later, on a weekend they both were able to jet off to Chicago, Owen met and held his niece, kissed her forehead, and spent more time apologizing — which Elise said was unnecessary — than he did speaking to anyone over the course of their time spent there. 

That same weekend, over a few shared bottles of wine — and sparkling grape juice for Elise — the four adults were able to talk freely about surrogacy. As much as Morgan had wanted to be involved in giving them their first child, she had been told during a routine exam that she had endometrial polyps. While they were found to be benign in nature, they were removed by a number of out-patient procedures, which left her in a poor situation for carrying a child. 

There was no doubt in Elise’s mind that she would carry their child; she wanted more than anything else in the world to give her brother and (soon-to-be) sister-in-law a child, when the universe had so hatefully decided they wouldn’t be able to conceive naturally. They asked about the logistics of it all, how it would be challenging for Claire and Owen to be there for ultrasound appointments and the sex-announcement, but that everything could be worked out in due time. Elise offered the help of the same fertility treatment center she and Morgan had used, and that same weekend they were able to squeeze in an appointment, the four of them with little Sarah in her carseat. 

It wasn’t until two years and countless IVF sessions later that Elise had announced that the final treatment took. As the fertility specialist explained, just because it happened the first time with Sarah didn’t mean it would be the same outcome with each use. IVF wasn’t a miracle cure for those who weren’t able to become pregnant, but Claire and Owen had held more hope in Elise than they’d had in themselves, and knew that if they were meant to have a _biological_ child, it would work. 

After the first ultrasound photo, Claire and Owen made the decision to get married. It wasn’t spurred only by the fact that they’d soon have a family of their own, but that it was time. Their entire relationship had been dominated by tragedy. The shooting, losing Henry, none of it needed to be dolloped with a wedding. There was no wedding that could have saved either of them from the pain of losing their son, and having a _celebration_ of love wouldn’t have coated the experience in a good light. If anything, it would’ve only reminded them that love cannot save everyone. 

Nine months, countless FaceTime sessions while talking to Elise’s bump, and a larger than life baby shower later, they were finally prepared to meet their son.

“Owen, _please_ , stop harassing the driver, he’s getting us there as fast as he possibly can.” Owen gripped the handle on the inside of the cab door as the car screeched around a corner, barreling towards the hospital at speeds that _should not_ be witnessed on inner-city streets. But, when Owen had slipped the driver a fifty-dollar tip, the man could hardly refuse the demands of the soon-to-be father. 

Morgan, on the other hand, sat with her hands gripping the headrest in front of her, body arched away from the seat, and her knee was bobbing up and down at an impossible speed. She was nervous, mainly for her wife, but also for Owen and Claire and what they’d put on hold to start their family. Claire had talked about how she wanted to open a second bakery in D.C. but they were using _those_ savings for the IVF treatments. 

Nervous wasn’t a strong enough expression to explain the emotions that had soared through his mind since he and Claire had landed in the city the night before. Apparently, they’d timed it just right, because Elise was admitted into the hospital a mere hour later. Owen had begged to stay at the hospital overnight, nerves wracking through his body at the thought of missing the birth of their first child, but someone needed to head back to Elise and Morgan’s apartment to take relief Barry of his babysitting duties and watch Sarah overnight. After all, there was only one cot in Elise’s room, and Claire promised she would call him during the night if _anything_ happened.

After leaving the hospital, Owen and Morgan had gotten to the apartment later in the evening to find Barry on the couch with Sarah asleep next to him, and Owen wasted no time in scooping his niece up in his arms and carrying her into her princess-themed bedroom. There were framed pictures of each Disney princess hung on the walls around the room, and each night before bed the three year-old would whisper goodnight to her favorite of the day, which she always claimed to be Rapunzel, no matter which day of the week it happened to be. That night, Owen laid wide awake in the guest bedroom with the onslaught of happiness that had spread through his body, the nerves left behind, at the thought of their son finally being in his arms. 

Now, Owen was certain that if he watched the visible anxiety thrumming through Morgan’s system, he too would get sick. So, he turned his head and looked the other direction, staring out the window as the skyscrapers flashed by, counting down the streets — starting down in Little Italy, where they’d shared breakfast that morning — until they would arrive at the hospital.

“I’m sorry, for my sister’s behavior, she’s a tad bit excited at the fact that today is the day that we’ll be meeting my son, but if we don’t make it to the hospital in time, we’re going to completely miss the birth…” Owen didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes widened in horror and he could imagine the scene playing in his mind. “So, it’s pretty damn important,” he chuckled. 

“I gets to meet my ‘ittle cousin today!” Sarah piped up from between Owen and Morgan, a wide smile plastered to her features as her tiny hands clung to Owen’s phone, her attention passing between the Doc McStuffins video and kicking her legs back and forth, trying to be more like her mom. The small brunette had been talking for _weeks_ about the upcoming arrival of the newest addition into the Grady family, but every time Elise or Morgan had stopped to correct Sarah — _‘he won’t be coming home to stay with us, sweetheart’_ — she refused to believe it. 

Not another word needed to be muttered for the man to kick into gear and pulled into the emergency room parking lot mere minutes later, thanking Owen repeatedly as the adults stepped out of the cab, one of Sarah’s hands clasped between theirs as they steered her in the direction of the revolving doors. 

While they’d been swept up in the excitement of his birth before even landing in Chicago, nothing could have prepared Claire for the day they would meet their son. After spending the entire night with Elise, talking until the early morning about the fears that kept her up at night. Elise did her best to try and calm those nerves, telling Claire that _every single new parent_ thought the same thing. What if they weren’t good enough? Not attentive enough? What if she didn’t know what he needed if he started crying? What if they weren’t _ready?_ Sure, the nursery had been prepared for him since the five-month ultrasound when they felt it was certain Elise would make it to full-term. Nothing could be guaranteed and they had been shown that with Henry, but now it all felt so real. Elise had been sure to send countless pictures, which included weekly updates of her bump, and Morgan had sent a few packages of adorable onesies and pacifiers, along with other necessities for the to-be parents. 

Claire felt honored to be chosen as the one and only person who would be there when Elise gave birth. When Elise had asked her earlier the night before, prior to Owen and Morgan leaving to collect Sarah, she was so taken aback that her first reaction was to ask Morgan if it was okay; would she feel left out, did she want to be in the delivery room? Morgan had shot down every excuse Claire had thought of to _not_ be in the room and promised that she would never hold it against Claire. 

Owen had a one-track mind; keeping Sarah tucked to his side and getting to the room as quickly as they could. This was Elise’s second pregnancy, her second time giving birth, and from every birthing book they’d read (as if his wife was the one who would be doing the pushing) that the second birth was usually easier — not to mention faster — than the first. It stirred a whirlwind of emotion in his chest when they reached the labor and delivery ward and began walking past the large, bay windows of the nursery, seeing the small newborns cradled in rose and periwinkle colored blankets, snuggled warm in the hospital’s version of a bassinet. 

But it was a different story all together when they made it to Elise’s room with the help of a nurse. There was no heavy breathing or screams echoing through the hallway. There was no sign of a newborn brought into the world, no cries that could shatter a new mother’s soul at the thought of being helpless to their newborn for the first few minutes of their life. Instead, when he pushed against the door, the sight that greeted him brought tears to his eyes. Elise and Claire sat on the bed, side by side, with a swaddled blue blanket resting in the crook of Claire’s arm and his sister was leaned over with her head resting on his wife’s shoulder as soft tears rolled down her cheeks. 

Despite not wanting to make himself known and ruin the moment, Sarah and Morgan were only two steps behind and once the toddler broke into the room, the tranquility was lost. “Uncle Owen, ‘ick me up!” She bounced up and down for a moment before he obliged and brought her into his arms. 

“Sarah,” Morgan started, shaking her head slowly, “you have to be quiet while you’re in here, okay? We can still talk, but William’s little ears will hurt if you talk so loud.” She crossed the room, moving to engulf Claire in a one-armed hug to not disturb little William, and kissed her sister-in-law on the cheek before she whispered a soft congratulations, before moving back to Owen’s side, taking their daughter before giving him an awkward, one-armed hug. 

Claire sat in utter shock, her gaze narrowed in on their son who was sleeping soundly in her arms. There were so many little features she had noticed, but the first was the light blue blanket, the same that Henry had been coddled in. “Is it just me, or is he smaller than I imagined?” _Smaller than Henry was._ He looked so peaceful; his tiny lips formed a perfect smile and Claire couldn’t help but to wonder what filled his dreams.

“Well, I don’t know about small, because I did just push him from my body,” Elise laughed and the corners of her lips touched into a smirk. “Owen, do you want to come hold him?” 

He barely needed to be asked, but before he stepped close to the bed he looked up at Claire who nodded him forward with a comforting smile. He sat down on the edge and scooted his way closer, taking the spot that Elise had occupied, and stared down at _their_ son. This was what they’d been waiting _years_ for; for this little nugget of sunshine to brighten their world. Wordlessly, Owen reached out for him and brushed his thumb across his head, smiling at his head full of blonde hair, who he could only assume he’d gotten from his father. 

He was heavier than she’d expected, too. All eight pounds, seven ounces of pure joy. Claire couldn’t help to notice his light eyebrows that furrowed together as they transferred him from one loving embrace to the next. The woman who carried him, protected him, and loved _them_ enough to give nine months of her life away just to give them a world of happiness. He stirred in her arms, and made small movements with his hands beneath the blanket, trying is best to shift. Without asking, Claire very gently began to peel away the layers of the blanket until she could see his bare chest and the small movements as he breathed. The rise and fall were slow, and if she stared long enough her heart began to race when his chest didn’t move for more than a few seconds. But what pulled her out of the pure panic was the feeling of his heart beating beneath her fingertips. 

At some point Elise and Morgan excused themselves, along with Sarah, out of the room to give the new parents time to bond with William. Claire didn’t notice when Elise moved from the bed and swapped places with Owen, and she hardly reacted when he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Look at how handsome he is,” he grinned, “clearly he takes after his dad, don’t you think?” Owen reached forward and slid his finger into the palm of his hand, inhaling sharply when his tiny fingers twitched before he grasped Owen’s finger, one that took up his son’s entire palm. “I can’t believe this is happening.” When he looked up from their son to meet Claire’s gaze, a soft smile fell to his lips despite the tears that had edged over, “I can’t believe we have the perfect baby we’ve been dreaming about.”

They sat there for what felt like hours, Owen’s arm wrapped around her shoulders as she leaned in closer to him, only moving William from her embrace when a nurse came in to give her a diaper to put on, and they chose to only use the blanket to dress him, for now. At some point, when they grew more comfortable with having William in their arms, passing the sleeping newborn between themselves, Owen looked up at Claire and smiled. “You didn’t say if you wanted to do it here, but do you want to take your shirt off and have him lay against your chest? I’ll do it, too, if it makes you more comfortable. And you can lay the blanket over him if you’re afraid of someone walking in…”

They’d read in the pregnancy and labor books that specialized on surrogacy that it was most important for the newborn to lay skin-on-skin with their ‘intended parents’, the label still bothering Claire to this day. It started the bonding process when the baby could feel the warmth radiating and the heartbeat would calm both the infant _and_ the parents, which Claire could surely believe. While Owen held their son in his arms, kissing his forehead and smiling in adoration, Claire slowly peeled off her henley and discarded it to the floor, leaving her in an ordinary bra, one that she wouldn’t mind getting spit on. Hell, at this point, she wouldn’t mind any of her clothes being ruined simply because it meant _their child_ would be doing it. Owen followed suit once William was resting against her, chest to chest, the blanket draped over his back to keep the chill from reaching his skin. 

This love, the love he’d once felt when looking down at Henry, the pain it’d brought to both of them, had faded away through time, but that was never promised. It was never a guarantee that they would see their pain through to the end, or to recover from the heartache that threatened to consume them both. Claire didn’t have to heal, she didn’t have to accept the idea that she would never carry a child to term. She would never feel the flutter of a baby kicking, or the hiccups of a growing child, safe inside the protection she could offer. There was no guarantee that Owen would be able to look at his wife in the same fashion as he one had; there was no one to tell him that she was still the woman he’d fallen for a few years before, just rough around the edges, was a rare stone in the making. 

[…]

The winter months in D.C. were cold and plagued with a desperation to seek southern, warmer weather, but for Owen and Claire the coldest time of the year, one where Christmas mingled into the season, had simply turned into a time of reflection. Christmas came and went with presents galore for William, spoiled in his three year-old glory and, before either knew it, they were well into the new year and counting down the days until the anniversary, except this year their attention and focus had been elsewhere. 

There wasn’t a day where Claire didn’t think about Henry, about the life they would’ve had with their two sons, merely a few years apart, and the joy the two boys would bring to her life. January 3, the day of William’s third birthday, they had started talking about what the future held, and if they would ever open their hearts to another child. A few months after William’s first birthday, Claire made the disheartening decision to undergo a complete hysterectomy after acquiring an infection that refused to respond to antibiotic therapy. The threat of it spreading further only increased due to her other health issues, and being in a wheelchair most of the time, as Claire had recently complained about, certainly didn’t help the situation. 

When the talk of expanding their family came about, Claire was the first to rule out asking Elise to carry another child for them, not when they had their hands full with Sarah and Gemma, their second (and last) child, as determined by the two women. And, when adoption came into play, it was the first time since they’d started talking about starting a family, far before William, that Claire was receptive to the idea. 

It was no longer about a biological connection; they were able to have one with William, and Claire knew that it was only part of the ability to become a mother. As she watched William grow into a spitting image of Owen, vivacious, full of spunk and attitude, she realized that it was only a mere piece of being a family. Family was not determined by a _biological_ relationship, but more it was how they morphed into one unit. 

Six months after they had initially started talking about expanding their family, they made the leap and decided to meet with a Alice Young, an adoption specialist at a local agency in D.C., Families First, and began the excruciating process of adoption. While they had no idea how to navigate the world of adoption, Claire was given Alice’s name from a regular customer at the bakery who had overheard Claire talking to Alissa, her co-baker. The moment Claire and Owen stepped into Alice’s office with Will in-tow, they knew it was a welcoming atmosphere. Not only did she have pictures scoured across her desk of herself with adoptive and birth parents, Claire had secretly googled her the night before in a last-minute rush to find out more about the woman they’d be putting in charge to expand their family. 

After the first meeting, Claire and Owen fell into bed that night with the legal jargon laying between them, a barrier of sorts. They’d agreed to disagree in terms of the ‘open adoption’ policy at Families First, and didn’t see eye-to-eye on the limits the birth mother would have in their child’s life. Claire never wanted their child to have to make a video and post it to the internet when they were in their late teenager years after finding out, sixteen years too late, that they were indeed adopted. On the other hand, Owen didn’t want to set a place at the dinner table for the birth mother, didn’t want her to invade their lives or have a say in how _they_ raised _their_ child. From their end, they agreed to disagree on major holidays, and their child’s birthday, when the birth mother would be invited. Needless to say, there was more than just space between them in bed. There were harsh words that had been exchanged in the heat of the moment while Alice sat before them on the other side of her desk and made quick remarks each time one of them stepped outside the lines. 

Claire had her heart set on adopting a newborn even though Owen was constantly reminding her to keep the options open. _‘You never know what will come of this, and it might not be a newborn, Claire,’_ were the exact words he had permanently etched into her memory.  There was heartbreak involved as they felt like their lives were on the chopping block for the world to behead, but it was surviving through the process that made them stronger. Each step of the way they included William and made sure he knew what the outcome would be: a brother or sister coming home to live with them. 

After the mountains of paperwork had been completed, the waiting game began. Three weeks passed without much word from Alice, as she was still trying to contact the birth mothers they had in the system and match Claire and Owen up with someone who met their criteria for adoption. In the meantime, they were asked to create a ‘family profile’, a video that was far too cheesy for her liking, that Alice would show to the hopeful matches. It outlined who they were as a family, introduced them to Will, and put into words what they were hoping for in the search.

It wasn't long into the fall months before they heard back from a hopeful young woman, Monica, who was in her early twenties. A college graduate with a successful job in real-estate, she’d been married before her husband was deployed to Iraq and died in combat. While Claire and Owen were not offered her entire life story when they met with Alice, they did know from her profile that she’d been estranged from her own family for years and had no way to care for a child. She wanted to give away all parental rights and wasn’t asking to know her daughter throughout the course of her life, but instead had one request: that she know her father died fighting for their country. 

Claire was in awe at Monica’s story and felt compelled to reach out to the woman who had lost so much, but it was against the other woman’s wishes. She didn’t wish to know about the family who would be taking her daughter into their home and showering her in love, but she did acknowledge them through a letter merely a week after signing the papers that would forbid her of any parental rights.

**_C_ ** _laire and **O** wen, _

_From what I understand, you’re a great couple who are firm in their marriage. You have a handsome son, Will, who just recently turned three and looks more like his father than any son should. This really is a compliment, I hope you know. From what Alice has shared with me, you have been through your fair share of tragedy and grief in your life, and relationship, and this is where we are one in the same._

_I married Staff Sergeant Michael Jameson after only knowing him for a mere six months, but our love was unlike any other. I, a college freshman, and he, a Private First Class in the United States Army, met on a whim. And by ‘a whim’ I mean at a bar. Now, don’t go getting the wrong impression of me just yet, but from what Alice has told me, you aren’t the type to judge. Being accepted into_ the _George Washington University may have been the_ highlight _of my life at eighteen years old, but little did I know I would meet the_ love _of my life during the second week of classes. Now, as I was saying, I was never the drinking type but a group of girls I had a communications class with invited me out, and I couldn’t say no. So, what did I do? I made myself into a total social pariah, took a book to the bar, and started reading. Which, come to find out, made me extremely attractive in the eyes of Michael Jameson._

_From there, we began dating. I was in classes during the day while he was at work on the base; Joint Base Myer—Henderson Hall, that is. He was focused in Homeland Security, which mainly consisted of being on command at The Pentagon. In February, after knowing each other for six months, we decided to get married. His friends and family thought I was in it for the deployment salary and the medical insurance, while my friends thought it was so that I could say I had married a soldier as if our love was something to fantasize over. Michael was deployed at the beginning of March for his first tour overseas, was gone for seven months, and when he returned home I was able to see him for a touch over three weeks before he was gone again. This continued for three years. He visited on a short leave before his last and final deployment, merely three months ago, and I’m sure you know what happened, and that is when I conceived our daughter. In July, two months after I graduated with my degree in business and communications, I was greeted by two soldiers who told me, point blank, that he was dead. At the time, I didn’t know I was pregnant, but found out late last month._

_I’m not a terrible person, and I have no doubt that I could be a good mother, but I don’t want my daughter to simply have a ‘good’ life. I want her to have a great, amazing, beautiful life, one that she is proud of living. I’m in a dark place and trying to fight my way through the grief of losing my husband, and I don’t want to bring a child into this world when I’m not sure if I have anything left here worth staying for. Call me selfish, but I’m trying the best that I can._

_I think it’s safe to assume that Alice has shared my wishes in regards to my daughter with you, but I’d like to tell you myself. I’m wishing to give up any and all parental rights which includes meeting you when my daughter is born. I don’t want you to assume that I’m not meeting you out of pain or feeling uncomfortable with meeting you, but I don’t want to witness the love that will shine in your eyes when you meet your new daughter, knowing that I will not feel the same._

_I don’t expect you to tell her about me, or who I am, but I will leave that choice up to you. I cannot imagine how hard the decision to tell her that she was born to another woman will be, but I am sure that I would never be half the mother that you are, Claire. I cannot promise that I will be around when she is old enough to wonder about the woman who gave her up at birth, but if I am, I would like you to discourage her from looking for me. I don’t mind if you show her this letter, and I am so sorry if she hates you for not letting her google my name, but I will never be able to live with the guilt of seeing her horrified face when she meets me for the first time._

_I do have one request, though. If years down the road you make the decision to tell her that she was adopted, that she was born to a woman who simply could not raise her, I would like for you to focus more on telling her about her father than me. Please, tell her how he selflessly fought for his country and paid the ultimate sacrifice. Tell her that he told some of the best jokes and often swore that if he hadn’t been called to serve our country he would have made a career as a mediocre stand-up comedian who lived out of sketchy hotel rooms, but he only ever cared about the room service offered._

_Tell her that her father would have loved to see the ultrasound, to kiss the stomach she was growing inside, to hear his little girl crying into the serene bliss of a delivery room, marking her entrance into this world. Tell her that, one day, she’ll meet him in the wind that blows between the cherry blossoms along the Potomac River, where his ashes were scattered._

_Take care,_

**_M_ ** _onica_ **_J_ ** _ameson_

They continued on with their daily lives with frequent updates from Alice, some in person but most over the phone and through e-mail. She often sent the newest ultrasound photos, forwarded from Monica’s e-mails, and while Claire always had the urge to take the woman’s e-mail address and send her a note in return, she was reminded to stick to the rules. The holidays passed and the cherry blossoms that lined the scenic Potomac River were in full bloom on the morning that Claire heard from Alice. It’d been a few weeks since they were able to meet up; Owen had been out of town for a week with training which meant that Claire had been taking Will to the bakery with her, and that only meant one thing: chaos. 

Claire woke up that morning with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. The day before she wasn’t able to complete an entire day of work and had found herself home early, curled up in bed with Will at her side when Owen came home and joined the party, and she didn’t move for the rest of the night. Instead, she woke up to an empty bed, the sounds of Echo snoring on the floor, and the chill in the air already threatening to keep her in bed for the rest of the day. It was during the winter that her body decided to be it’s meanest, tightening her joints and restricting movement from the waist down. Yet, with continuous physical therapy, which these days meant Claire going to the gym and swimming laps in the pool while William and Owen cheered from the side, she was able to keep her legs and lower back limber enough to walk around a bit; but, for the most part, the wheelchair had made a reappearance in her life. At the end of her session, William was allowed to join for a short swim before the three went home, took warm showers, and snuggled on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate.

Despite the discomfort she felt — and was beginning to convince herself that it was merely mental — Claire forced herself into getting out of bed and going on with her Saturday morning, which she used to plan the numerous baked goods she would make in the upcoming week for the bakery, mainly so her shopping list (which she would hand off to Alissa) would be fulfilled. She reached for the armrest on the wheelchair and pulled it from its place tucked beside the bed, and in only seconds it was ready. 

As she moved from the bedroom into the serene living room, it was safe to assume that Owen had taken Will out for the morning. She loved their son — more love than her heart was able to contain at one time — but he usually held more energy on the weekends when he was able to sleep in and not exert every bit of his zest during the first hour at daycare. For Claire and _planning,_ a now four year-old usually only caused more chaos than it was worth. So, with two hours to spare, she got to work, pulling out her own personal cookbooks and going through recipe after recipe until she’d decided on fifty baked goods, everything from chocolate croissants to old-fashioned doughnuts, that would fill the display case throughout the week. 

She was an hour into planning when her phone rang — from across the room — and Claire was in a rushed haste when she answered that she hardly bothered looking at the caller I.D. 

“I hope that you’re aware it’s only been an hour, Will better have a good reason for wanting to come home so soon. Like, he misses his mom and wants to spend more time with her in the kitchen.” As her voice trailed into a fit of laughter, Claire recognized the silence on the other end and suddenly her throat was closing, restricting all breathing for longer than necessary. 

“Claire? Hi, it’s Alice, is now a good time, or…”

She could practically close her eyes and picture the older woman, about fifty in age, holding the phone tightly to her ear while she tapped her obnoxiously long nails against the desk she was more than likely sitting at. Sometimes, she really peeved Claire, especially when she thought about her nails. What sane woman, who worked with infants, had such a neat manicure? It was almost illegal. 

“No, no,” Claire inhaled sharply and pushed herself away from the dining room table, rolling around the kitchen to pass time, or the seconds of hesitation her voice held. “Now is a perfect time, is—is everything okay?” She could hear shuffling on the other end and she imagined their _mountain_ of adoption paperwork being thrown into a bin marked to be shredded, disqualified when they found about that William was carried by a _lesbian_ , which automatically marked them as unfit parents. 

“Would you and Owen be able to meet me at my office in say, an hour? I would like to speak with the two of you in person, rather than by phone…” 

The open-ended statement only sent Claire into a pure frenzy, one she tried to conceal while still on the phone. She dismissed Alice’s worry that if they were unable to meet today it could possibly be moved to Monday morning, and promised they would make it there within an hour.

“Oh, and if it’s at all possible, please don’t bring William along. I wouldn’t want to complicate the matter further…”

[…]

“What do you mean she wants us to meet her at her office?” 

Owen came charging through the front door, carrying a sleeping William in one arm and a paper grocery bag in the other. They were running out of milk, which their son had a fond liking for, and peanut butter, which he also loved everyday for lunch, and if they were going to make it easy on a last-minute babysitter, then Claire had practically _begged_ for Owen to stop and pick up the two necessities.

After Claire had called Owen in a pure panic, reciting Alice’s words verbatim and nearly breaking into tears at the idea of waiting anxiously to be called about their daughter being born, she scoured her phone for babysitters they used on a regular basis and when Bethany — a daughter of one of Owen’s colleagues — was free and able to take him for the rest of the afternoon, Claire threw in the promise of a tray of fresh-baked sweets and an extra tip.

“I don’t know what she means by it, but that’s exactly what she told me. That we need to met her at her office because _‘something came up’_ that she’d like to talk to us about. That’s all she told me.” Claire parked the wheelchair in the corner of their bedroom and stood to walk into their closet, ignoring Owen’s mumbling about how she shouldn’t be walking when she knows how it aggravates the rest of her body. 

He continued to grumble something about the nerve of a woman who would call them in on a Saturday, during the middle of the winter season nonetheless, without as much as a few hours notice. “And she asked us to leave William at home? Did she tell us to send her the bill for the babysitter, too? Because I’d be happy to.” 

Claire laughed quietly and balled up her pajama top, throwing it at Owen, only to scoff when it landed a solid foot in front of him. “Just—let’s get ready? Bethany will be here soon, and we really need to leave. Like, in ten minutes.” 

They both went their separate ways, Claire in the closet trying to decide what she would wear and what would be the most comfortable to wear when she would be walking with her hand crutches, while Owen decided on a quick shave. It was the least he could do when he was beginning to look the slightest bit like a bear. But, as long as Claire didn’t complain, he was fine. 

Will had wandered into their bedroom just as Claire was settling on the side of the bed, slipping her lace-up boots on, and stood directly in front of his mother in the fashion that he usually did when he had something to say. “Mama,” he groaned, crossing both small arms over his chest, pouting his bottom lip out. “Mama, I’hungry…”

Caught up in the rush of getting dressed and out the door, Claire hadn’t thought of making his lunch _before_ Bethany arrived, hoping he could wait until she was at the door and they were out. 

She held her arms out and motioned for him to walk closer, enveloping him in a hug as she kissed his temple. “Baby, Bethany is going to be here soon…can she make it for you? She’s got skills, she can cut the crust off.” 

“Bee don’t cut it like a dinosaur like you do, Mama.” Will weaseled his way out of her embrace before he stumbled back a few steps, and quickly looked up when Owen came out of the bathroom, a wicked smile taking over his features. 

Well, she couldn’t fight him there. 

“Will, are you causin’ trouble again?” Owen laughed devilishly and shook his head before he leaned down to kiss his son on the forehead. He was a miniature of himself, but there were so many things he saw in Will that he admired in Claire, including his love for being in the kitchen. “You know, one day you’re going to learn how to cut your own dino sandwiches, right? Weren’t we talking about that at the park?” Owen peeked up and winked at Claire, who was sitting with her mouth hung wide open, as Will darted from their bedroom with strict instructions for his mom to ‘sit, stay, _good_ ’, just like he told Echo when giving her a treat.

“Owen, our son is not using a—“ 

“Look what Daddy got me from the stores!” When he came running back into the room, Will held up the yellow dinosaur-shaped cookie cutter with pride shining through his smile. 

Claire laughed quietly and applauded her husband for mercilessly giving her job away, which he knew about, and Will was quick to interject, adding that she would _always_ have a job making his peanut butter sandwiches.

For what seemed like the first time all morning, Claire exhaled with genuine laughter as their son ran around the room with his ‘sandwich maker’ unaware of the outside world; of the fear, and the pain that lurked around the corner, waiting to snatch its next prey. When the high-pitched screech of the doorbell shook them out of their blissful banter over sandwiches and which was better — dinosaur or unicorn shaped — Claire walked carefully into the foyer and welcomed Bethany inside. 

The seventeen year-old had been their main babysitter since Will had arrived home with them four years before, and it was as if they’d watched her grow up, too. In the fall she would be leaving for college, and Claire knew Will would be heartbroken that ‘the best babysitter in the whole wide world’ would be leaving him, but they managed to talk him away from the topic whenever it came up. With a quick overview of where they were going and no idea when they’d be home, Bethany reassured Claire that they’d be fine and, as always, she would get Will ready for bed if they weren’t home. 

Eighteen minutes later, much to her dismay, they were pulling out of the garage and well on their way to Alice’s office, both cloaked in the discomfort of the unknown. Claire kept to herself, staring out the window and tapping on the side of the door to keep herself calm. How could this happen? Not that she knew exactly _what_ was happening, but that fear crept up the back of her throat.

“Do you remember the night we drove to the hospital when I was in labor?” Her voice was soft and her mind was faraway, lost in the pain she’d felt, wondering how it felt so foreign now. “Do you remember what I told you?” 

Owen nodded, trying his best to keep his own worries at bay. Had they found out something in one of their records? Did they discover that he’d gotten too many speeding violations and it disqualified them from being the standard definition of a _‘good parent_ ’? They’d read Monica’s letter at least a hundred times, and when he felt like this dream — the dream of having a bigger family — would never come true, he pulled it out of the drawer they kept it in, tucked under the picture of Claire’s first ultrasound when pregnant with Henry, along with some of the newborn pictures they took before the nurses whisked him away, and read it until the tears blurred his vision. He loosened the white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel and peered over at her, shaking his head despite knowing exactly what she’d told him. 

“Oh, come on, you know exactly what I said. But, since you’re claiming not to,” she reached over and rested her hand on his thigh and squeezed gently, “I told you that everything would be okay. That, no matter what, we would make it through to the other side. And look at us now. We have our spunky son, and now we’re going to go find out about the next addition to our family. So don’t worry, _please_. The spaces are filling in, love.”  

It was an a-plus pep talk, one that Claire usually kept in her pocket, reserved for a rainy day, but she knew that he needed it more than she did. Everything seemed worth it when Owen looked over with a soft smile, although the corner of his lips didn’t seem to quirk as much as any other day. He continued to drive in silence until they pulled into the nearly empty office parking lot and turned the car off, but neither one moved. They both stared at the front of the building and contemplated what this day would mean; how would this play out into their future? 

Ten minutes later they were sitting side-by-side in Alice’s office, looking over her desk and waiting for the woman to come in. 

“I’m going to cut to the chase, because I know it was terrible to call you here on a Saturday afternoon, but this is important, I promise.” Alice sat down across from the couple and folded her hands before resting her chin against her knuckles. “I didn’t want to tell you this over the phone, but Monica gave birth to healthy baby girl early this morning. I know we estimated her due date to be two weeks out, but what truly matters is that your precious daughter, all eight pounds and eleven ounces of her, is waiting for you to take her home. I know you both agreed that we would skip the interim care due to the nursery being set up, so I guess what I’m asking is if you would like to meet your little girl?” 

By the time she finished speaking, Claire was bent over with a hand clutched over her mouth, the other one clutched tightly in Owen’s grip. This was the moment they’d been waiting for and neither could believe it was finally happening. It was their chance to bring another child into their family, to shower both Will and the newest addition in the love they had to give, and then some. 

Neither could answer fast enough, mouths dry with pent-up excitement and emotion ready to break through their chests. Claire was the first to look up, teary-eyed but a full smile causing her cheeks to hurt.

Alice took it as nothing but a good sign that they were completely speechless and took this as her moment to step out of the room without another word between herself and the couple so overcome with joy. She was only gone for a minute, two tops before she returned carrying a car seat that the little girl, complete with a pink-flowered onesie and a blanket placed across her lap to protect her from the chill in the air. Gently, Alice sat the carseat at Claire’s feet and kneeled down to begin unstrapping her. 

“Claire, Owen, I’d like you to meet your baby—“ 

“Harper,” Owen cleared his throat and lifted a hand to drag across his face, unable to stop the tears from falling. “Her name is Harper.” He had no other choice but to watch as Alice lifted her from the carrier and placed her into Claire’s waiting warms and soon leaned over to stroke the top of her head, amazed by the thick, dark hair, and how soft it was. It reminded him of the moments after Will’s birth, when they spent hours coddling each part of his tiny body, marveling at his fingernails and how small they were, and the imprint of the ink made on his feet when the prints were made.

Alice moved to sit behind her desk once more but leaned against the wooden top and watched as the couple she’d worked so closely with to make their dreams come true were able to hold the newest member of their family, a day they thought would never happen again. What seemed like hours later and plenty of tears shed, Alice stepped around to hug them both goodbye.

“Claire, Owen, take your sweet girl home. She’s all yours.” 

EPILOGUE 

“Mama, can I _please_ carry the cake?” Will leaned against the counter, each elbow pressed against the marble top as he placed the single candle in the middle of the cake that was decked out in bright, neon-colored polka dots set against a white background. in the days leading up to Harper’s first birthday, Will had practically _begged_ to help make the birthday cake and Claire was in no place to deny that wish. 

Not when she had plenty enough on her plate to deal with. 

For their daughter’s first birthday, both sides of their families were set on being there to celebrate. Owen’s father wasn’t in the best of health, so his parents were unfortunately staying in Chicago, but Elise and Morgan had flown in the night before with Sarah and Gemma in tow, and Karen had left the boys behind to take a vacation-for-one to D.C. 

It was strange what a year could do for a family. In one year, they watched their daughter gurgle and rip fistfuls of Will’s hair out. They were there for her first word, and it didn’t disappoint Claire or Owen in the least when it was neither ‘mama’ or ‘dada’ but her tiny little lips trying to form her brother’s name, but ended up being ‘ _Wu’._

It brought along the newest opening of Claire’s bakery down the road in the Foggy Bottom district, and she made the front cover of one of D.C.’s finest culinary magazines, displaying her succulent desserts that the city was still falling head over heels for, even after six years. 

Will hopped off the step-stool as Claire lifted the cake platter from the counter and carefully placed it in his hands. There were times over the past few weeks where she’d thought to herself that Will was more excited for the cake than Harper, but when Claire took a step back to get a better look at the situation, she finally realized their daughter was only turning one. She didn't know the different between her _birthday_ and a regular day was the mound of brightly-wrapped gifts that had flooded their living room.

Claire led their son into the dining room with a gentle hand on his back, not nearly as cautious as she would be if the candle was lit, but since there was no fire involved, she wasn’t going to fret. They appeared around the corner and Claire saw their daughter first, her eyes wide as if they’d performed a magic trip, and she began to clap as a loud squeal escaped. “Mama,” she pointed towards the birthday cake, her lips pulled into a toothy grin, “Wu has ‘ake!” 

The small group began to sing happy birthday to Harper as the newly one year-old sat clapping, as happy as ever. Claire rounded the table and leaned on the other side of their daughter, matching Owen on the opposite side, and reached around the back of the highchair to grasp his hand, squeezing gently. Harper reached out to Claire and rested her tiny hand against her cheek, patting her a few times. Claire didn’t understand what their daughter was doing until she felt the wet tears against her skin. 

It was a snapshot of their lives that they’d dreamt of sharing for years, since the moment they’d lost each other and found their way back. It was like their entire lives together had been pre-destined, created into a puzzle, and the pieces had finally fallen into place. It was in times like these that the spaces of their lives, the ones that were once filled with grief and tragedy, fear and senseless noise were overtime slowly replaced. They once had nothing but empty space between them, lodged into each crevice as if it were a part of who they were, following them around like a lost puppy without a place in the world to call home. It was constantly bogging down their thoughts and filling their minds with the ‘what ifs’ of life instead of the ‘why not’. It was as if their lives — and love — had finally come full circle. They had fought their way back from a battlefield that had no defined ending, only to realize that the true ending came with finding their way back to each other. 

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't be afraid to reach out and tell me what you liked! What part made you emotional? Did you get angry? You can find me on Tumblr, too, @bryc-dlls-hwrd!


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